


Feathers on the Ice

by Kiranokira



Series: Shenanigans from the 2017–18 Figure Skating Season [1]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Chatting & Messaging, Cuddling & Snuggling, Established Katsuki Yuuri/Victor Nikiforov, Fluff and Smut, Getting Together, Getting to Know Each Other, M/M, Slow Burn, in roughly that order
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-20
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2018-12-17 15:17:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 78,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11854272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kiranokira/pseuds/Kiranokira
Summary: After dinner and a bath and quality hamster time, snuggled in bed cocooned within his eight entirely necessary pillows, Phichit indulges himself and investigates Seung-gil's hashtag. There isn’t much from Seung-gil himself, but Seung-gil's fans are many and dedicated. Amid the photos of Seung-gil at competitions or practicing and the few candid shots of Seung-gil in airports or out on the streets of Seoul, there’s a very recent professional video uploaded by user andjoy_studio.Phichit clicks on it, and his life changes.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Warm and emphatic gratitude for the advice and knowledge given to me by the lovely J, who puts up with an ever expanding plethora of figure skating questions. ♡

Phichit spends the evening of April 30th, 2018 vlogging about what it’s like to celebrate his twenty-second birthday pinned under all fifty-seven kilograms of his drunk, snoring boyfriend.

Seung-gil only stirs at the end when Phichit winks at the camera and kisses the top of his head.

“Anything you’d like to add?” Phichit asks him.

“Stop to English,” Seung-gil murmurs, in English.

Phichit gives the camera a solemn nod.

He posts the video to Instagram. It’s how the world finds out they’re dating.

•

Exactly twelve years earlier, Phichit travels to Seoul with his mother for an ice show. He’s in constant motion from the moment they leave the plane, and he only settles down when they board the subway. He sits beside his mother with his hands pressed under his thighs and channels his enthusiasm into beaming at the mostly Korean commuters around him who can’t seem to resist offering small, wry smiles back.

Even with the time it takes them to check in to their hotel and then wash up in the room, they arrive at the venue early. Phichit runs the length of their empty aisle twice, laughing. When his mother grabs the back of his jacket and gives him a Look, he sheepishly sits down and takes out the Russian flag he made with Viktor Nikiforov’s dog emblazoned in the center. He bounces his legs until his mother tickles his side.

“How much longer?” he asks her, plaintive.

“We’ve still got a while,” she says. “Keep your eye on the people coming in. You might see someone you recognize.”

Phichit dutifully watches the people shuffling in. After roughly eight seconds, he looks up at his mother and says, “Can I have the camera?”

“Let’s wait a little while for that.”

“I promise not to use it until the show starts!”

“Then you can wait until the show starts.”

“Please? I just want to hold it.” He meets her skeptical look with an earnest, wide-eyed one of his own.

They hold each other’s gaze until she gives in with a sigh and bends to unclasp the camera bag at her feet. “Both hands. And don’t fill the memory card. I’d like to take some shots tomorrow, too.”

“I know, I know.”

Phichit doesn’t find a single familiar face in the crowd to photograph, so he passes the time adjusting the camera settings instead. His mother, always the brightest point in every room, strikes up a conversation in English with the platinum-haired girl on her other side. Watching his mother, Phichit has to resist the urge to take her photo. She has what his father calls “charisma” and his grandfather calls “presence”, but she doesn’t seem to like photos of herself.

Striking upon an idea, Phichit turns the camera around and collapses against her, beaming as he snaps a photo of them both. Maybe she’ll like it more if she’s not the only one in the shot.

“Phichit!” his mother laughs. “What did I say?”

“Just one!” he says, already checking how the photo turned out. Her wild-eyed reaction to her ten-year-old’s ambush makes him giggle. When he shows her, she rolls her eyes and bats the top of his head, which only makes him giggle more.

“Incorrigible,” she says, a proclamation almost as familiar to him as his own name.

As his mother returns to her conversation, a small boy Phichit’s age sits in the seat next to him without ceremony. He’s pale and skinny, with no parent or guardian with him. He doesn’t spare Phichit a second’s attention, glowering down at the ice with his fingers tight around the edge of the seat he’s taken.

He’s really pretty.

Phichit smiles and opens his mouth to introduce himself in spite of the frosty vibes barricading the boy. As he’s drawing breath, the boy meets Phichit’s eyes and grimaces. Coolly and sharply, he stands up and walks away, taking a new seat just across the aisle.

Phichit lets out a tiny noise of wounded disbelief and downgrades the boy from “potential friend” to “mean, weird kid”.

“Look, Phichit!” his mother says, shaking him by the shoulder. “It’s starting!”

As the lights dim, Phichit holds out, waiting for the kid to look at him again. When he doesn’t, Phichit turns away and devotes his attention to the crisp sound of skates slicing through ice. He doesn’t look again.

•

Five years later, Phichit’s coach introduces him to Coach Min-so and her three junior skaters.

Jung-oh is quiet. He responds with nods and neutral noises.

Seung-gil is even quieter. He’s got a thing for staring.

The third, Tae-woo, is cheerful and quickly returns Phichit’s wai with fumbling enthusiasm. He’s thirteen and obsessed with some old cartoon about space lions and his double axel is nearly perfect. Within thirty minutes, they’ve exchanged contact information.

For the second time, Seung-gil is little more than a footnote in Phichit’s memory.

•

Phichit sees Seung-gil more after that, at competitions and parties and large group dinners. Seung-gil is always oddly polite to him, but never friendly, and Phichit grows to enjoy the inexplicable favoritism, considering how dismissively Seung-gil treats everyone else their age. Around eighteen, he privately adds Seung-gil’s name high on a list of skaters he’d happily make out with. He’s almost sure, with Seung-gil’s singleminded focus and perfectionist streak, he’d kiss just as well as Tae-woo.

•

The night before Phichit leaves for Detroit, his mother gives him a photo album as a going-away present. Inside it are her top two hundred favorite photos he’s ever taken with her camera. His father’s written “Our King and Skater” in gorgeous golden ink on the cover.

“I know it’s heavy,” his mother says, sheepish. “You shouldn’t bring it with you. I just wanted to show you. I really tried to keep it to a hundred but—”

Phichit cuts her off with a hug, crying against her shoulder while she sobs against his. His father bawls, clinging to the wired home of Phichit's hamsters.

On the plane, Phichit flips through the pages, his eyes wet as he reads the notes his parents have written next to some of the photos. When he gets to the one of him and his mother in Seoul, he notices a solemn-faced boy in the upper right hand corner. He’s sitting in the row behind them with two older men, looking straight at the camera.

The note beside the photo in his mother’s handwriting says, [Aww, remember that little boy? He tried to talk to you, but he was too shy.]

Phichit thinks, _Ohhh._

Then he peers closer at that solemn mouth and those thick eyebrows and his eyes widen.

_Oh!_

•

Phichit knows he should feel tempted to post a shot of the photo to Twitter and tag Seung-gil, but he isn’t. And he doesn’t.

He isn’t sure why, but he wants to keep this moment from their past to himself.

•

In Detroit, Phichit uses his gift for socializing to make his shy Japanese roommate his best friend.

It takes some work.

Yuuri keeps his side of the room immaculate at first, with barren walls and hardly a single personal item to make him look less like a serial killer. He answers all of Phichit’s friendly questions with monosyllabic responses and never initiates conversation, so Phichit takes the hint and tries not to bother him.

Sometimes, the girls from Malaysia and Germany in the room below theirs invite them to lunch at the cafeteria. Yuuri always declines, but Phichit usually accepts and then makes a point of bringing back fruit or cereal back for him. One evening, he gives Yuuri a copy of the list he’s made of Barely Acceptable Restaurants Near Campus, and Yuuri brings back a bag of soggy garlic knots from #6 on the list to thank him.

The only place Yuuri seems comfortable is on the ice, and even there he shrinks a bit when the Americans cheer him on and chant his name. He’s a bit of a puzzle, but he _is_ nice, and Phichit can see he’s trying.

On their twelfth day as roommates, Phichit returns from his post-practice shower and catches a glimpse of the background on Yuuri’s laptop. It’s only the golden blade of a skate, but it’s enough for Phichit to exclaim, “Oh! Viktor!”

Yuuri’s entire face transforms.

Within five minutes, Phichit learns that his solemn, standoffish roommate only seems like a serial killer because he’s hiding his true identity as Viktor Nikiforov’s most devoted and besotted fanboy.

Phichit receives the news with delight and urges Yuuri to put up the posters he’s been hiding under his bed. “These are not best,” Yuuri explains as he presses gummy adhesive to the painted cinderblock walls. “Ah, no. These are not _favorite_. Favorite—ah, _favorites_ are in Japan. These, ah…. _fukusei tte nan to iu kana?_ ” His forehead creases and he jumps down to retrieve his phone, searching for the word he wants in English. He chants, “ _Fukusei, fukusei, fukusei_ ,” under his breath as he types and when he looks up, he yells, “Duplication!” triumphantly.

It’s the most he’s said in twelve days. Phichit grins and decides he can work with this.

(Years later, guests at the Katsuki-Nikiforov wedding who ask Phichit how he and Yuuri became friends will laugh to hear that that’s all it took to bridge and cement the bond between them.

He won’t tell them Seung-gil's place in his life took more work.)

•

In the summer of 2017, Phichit is twenty-one and his feelings toward Seung-gil can be described as “neutrally warm”. He knows Seung-gil exists, he’s watched him skate, and has spoken maybe sixteen full sentences to him in total. He also knows Seung-gil as the boy who snubbed him in Seoul when they were ten.

“Oh, right, you told me that story,” Yuuri says. It’s close to three o’clock in St. Petersburg and they’ve been talking over FaceTime about their competitors for almost an hour. Viktor is somewhere off camera singing along to music while he makes lunch for the two of them.

Phichit regularly longs for time travel just to go back and tell a twelve-year-old Yuuri that Viktor Nikiforov will one day be so ludicrously in love with him he’ll eschew the trips abroad and five-star dining he’s perfectly within his means to enjoy just so the two of them can spend more time alone at home. Where they live. Together.

“I mean, I don’t hold it against him now,” Phichit says. “He probably just didn’t know what to say to me.”

“Does he know you have that photo of him?” Yuuri asks.

“No, I’ve never told him. It’s always kind of a strange time to bring it up.”

Phichit’s still surprised he didn’t realize it was Seung-gil sooner. Seung-gil remained roughly the same size for years and cycled through the same three outfits off the ice until he hit puberty and outgrew them, whereupon he switched to the three he wears now.

“He seems like a good person,” Yuuri says. “I think he’s just bad with people.” He sounds thoughtful, and Phichit zeroes in on it with interest.

“Yuuri, you know something,” he says, grinning, “and it sounds interesting. Tell Phichit.”

Yuuri laughs and holds his hands up. “It’s not. Really. Just, after the Rostelecom Cup, he was upset, and he didn’t have anyone but his coach to talk to. I felt sorry for him.”

“His coach is nice!” Phichit says.

Yuuri makes the sound Phichit knows is Japanese for, “I have many thoughts on this but I don’t want to share any of them out loud at this time”.

Phichit tilts his head and tries a different tactic. “How do you know he was upset? Did you talk to him?”

Yuuri hums again, but this time he sounds a little more amused. “What do _you_ do when you’re upset?” he asks.

Phichit blinks. “Recently? Talk to you. Skate. Watch musicals. Makeup videos. Volunteer at the animal shelter near the rink. Stuff like that. Why?”

Yuuri’s eyes are creased with fondness. “I’m glad we’re friends.”

“What does that mean?” Phichit laughs.

“What I said,” Yuuri teases.

Viktor spins into the frame in time with the music and tucks himself around Yuuri. He murmurs something in Yuuri’s ear that has Yuuri blushing.

“Already? What time is it?”

Viktor kisses his cheek and smiles at the camera. “Hello, Phichit!” he says. “May I borrow my fiancé for a taste check?”

“You can have him back,” Phichit says, grinning. “My friend’s coming over for dinner soon anyway.”

It isn’t until Phichit’s changing out of the pajamas he wore all day that he realizes Yuuri never told him how he knew Seung-gil was upset. But it can’t be too hard to figure out. What else do people do when they’re upset?

“Ah,” he says, halfway into his shirt.

In Phichit’s mind, Seung-gil’s passion for skating has always lived pretty firmly in the realm of obsessive, not emotional. It never occurred to Phichit until now that Seung-gil might love skating the same way he does.

But he still can’t imagine Seung-gil crying over…anything, really.

•

Shortly after Supatra arrives, Phichit leans on his kitchen counter and texts Yuuri, [He was crying???]

Yuuri promptly writes back, [Don’t tell anyone!! He looked really upset with himself, and he probably doesn’t know I saw.]

Phichit says, “Wow,” and puts his phone face-down.

Supatra taps him on the nose with the end of Phichit’s silicone whisk. “Wow what?”

“Nothing,” Phichit says brightly, waving his hands.

Despite living on his own for the past year, Phichit’s never cooked anything more complicated than coconut rice, and Supatra has never cooked anything, period. The two of them in the kitchen should result in at least a melted pan, but they manage to produce braised octopus with suspicious ease.

“I mean, the coconut rice doesn’t match,” Supatra observes. She chews her second bite with her nose wrinkled.

“Shh,” Phichit says. He lifts his spoon to his mouth and tells her one of the few things he would defend to his last breath: “Coconut rice always matches.”

Supatra has known him since they were seven years old. She lived in the apartment upstairs, a tennis prodigy who had trouble making friends. The week her family moved in, she pissed off every single one of their neighbors by practicing serves against the wall of her bedroom. The building unanimously chose Phichit’s mother to confront Supatra’s parents, and by sundown, Supatra’s family were having dinner in the Chulanont home. Supatra’s been Phichit’s closest (non-skating) friend (in Thailand) ever since.

After fifteen minutes of the movie they chose at random, Supatra says casually, “Can we watch literally anything else? This is terrible.”

“We could watch—”

“ _You_ can watch The King and the Skater. In your bedroom. Alone.”

Phichit makes a wounded sound and covers his heart. “You like the garden scene! And I haven’t made you watch it since high school! _And_ it won me a gold medal!”

She nods tolerantly and then reaches for the remote. She used to argue more, but the gold medal has become a pretty decisive checkmate move. While she searches Netflix for something else to watch, Phichit takes a sneaky photo of her intimidating the TV with the same steely look she gives her competitors. After he uploads it to Instagram, he scrolls down to the next photo on his feed, which Viktor uploaded seven minutes ago. His and Yuuri’s right hands are shaping a heart over the yakisoba Viktor made for them. Phichit double-taps the photo with a grin and writes, [Awww!] with a slew of heart-eyed emoji.

On a whim, he looks up Seung-gil's username. In total, Seung-gil only has fourteen photos uploaded, stretched across four years. The most recent one—Seung-gil icing his ankle—was posted _last year_ , a month before the Rostelecom Cup. Seung-gil's coach must have taken it, since both of Seung-gil's hands in the photo are occupied, one on the ice pack and one splayed over the apple of his calf muscle.

“Who’s he?” Supatra settles her arm around Phichit’s shoulders and peers at his phone. “He’s gorgeous. Kpop idol?”

Phichit backs out of the photo so she can see the rest of his gallery, such as it is. “No. Just Korean. He’s a skater.”

Supatra rests her chin on Phichit’s shoulder, her face centimeters from his. “Phichit,” she says with gravitas, “have you finally found a nice boy worthy of breaking all your fans’ hearts?”

“Sadly, no,” he laughs.

“Shame. Not into men?”

“Not into people,” Phichit corrects. “He’s a little antisocial.”

She ruffles the hair at the back of his neck where it’s gotten a bit shaggy. “When has that _ever_ been a problem for you?”

“It’s not. But I’m not interested in him,” Phichit says. There’s a long pause, and it’s heavy enough that Phichit glances up at her, eyes wide with trepidation. “What?”

She’s grinning. “I think you are.” She sets the remote control aside entirely and turns to face him, legs crossed. Her long black hair, braided and thick like a whip when she competes, pours over both shoulders to her waist. “Phichit,” she says gently. “In the fourteen years we’ve known each other, I have heard you use the word ‘crush’ exactly once and that was to describe the actor who played Arthur, and shh, yes, I know his name, I just refuse to admit—even to myself—that I know as much about him as I do.”

Phichit lets this slide, as he has every time before, only because he knows her annoyance with the movie stems from her loyalty to the book series it was based on.

“I don’t really have time for crushes,” Phichit says in what he thinks sounds like a reasonable tone. “Or relationships.”

“Your Japanese friend is managing,” she points out wryly.

“The situation Yuuri is in is _not_ something I can emulate,” he laughs. “Neither can anyone else, for that matter.”

Supatra turns Phichit’s phone toward herself and hums. “You suggested Korean food for dinner, and you’re going through his Instagram, but you don’t follow him. This is what a crush looks like, my friend.”

He opens his mouth to object, but out of respect for the length of their friendship and how well she knows him, he considers what she’s saying. He spent an hour talking to Yuuri about at least ten people, Chris and Otabek and JJ and little Yuri and Guang Hong and Leo included, and yet the details he can most clearly recall now are all about Seung-gil.

“Huh.”

Supatra tugs his earlobe fondly. “Do you find him attractive?” she asks.

“That’s not fair,” he says, amused. “All of my friends are attractive.”

“Thank you.” She bows her head in gratitude. She looks tempted to comment on Phichit’s broad definition of the word “friend”, but she doesn’t.

He tips an imaginary hat in return.

Of course Seung-gil is attractive. It was one of the first things Phichit noticed about him that day when they were ten, and he’s only gotten better looking with time. Lean build, plush lips, striking eyes, cut cheekbones. Phichit will readily admit that Seung-gil has always been on his radar, but only as someone he’d kiss if he had the opportunity. He has the feeling Supatra means attractive in a slightly more involved sense, and if Seung-gil knew how to dress himself, style his hair, or talk to people, Phichit knows he’d have a much quicker answer for her.

While he’s thinking, he follows Seung-gil's page.

Supatra pulls her lips in like she’s trying not to laugh at him, which he appreciates. “Do you think he likes you? Apart from the antisocial tendencies.”

“We’ve spoken,” Phichit says. “But we’ve never really—oh hey! Hang on.” He pushes off the sofa and dashes to the bookshelf where his eyes quickly light upon on the photo album. When he flops back on the sofa he’s already found the page he’s looking for and he points out tiny, tousled, ten-year-old Seung-gil.

“That’s him? Aww. He was adorable. Look at that little pout.”

“He hasn’t changed much, has he?” Phichit says. He sets his phone on top of the album, past and present photos lined up side by side.

“He really hasn’t,” she says. “You should ask him out.”

Phichit smiles wryly. He switches off his phone’s screen and returns the album to the bookshelf.

“What? You should!”

“I’m fine with things as they are,” Phichit says. “I like being single. Besides, we don’t have much in common outside skating, or we would have found something to talk about by now.”

“But he’s _pretty_ ,” she says earnestly. “The only one besides the Russian and your Japanese friend pretty enough to date you.”

Phichit covers his mouth, putting on a bit of a show of scandalized horror. “I’m telling Chris you said that,” he says.

“I’m not afraid of Chris,” she says. She tugs him back onto the sofa and sprawls over his shoulder with a yawn. “Besides, Chris knows he’s not pretty. He’s sexy. Very different category.”

“Yuuri’s sexy!”

“ _Any_ way,” she says. “I’m just saying. If you find yourself considering your options—when that day comes, this guy should be in the running, if only for the beautiful selfies you two could make together.”

Phichit nods along, amused. At the word “selfie”, he picks up his phone and says, “Until then, I have you.”

She pops a peace sign and says, “Yay.”

•

Phichit has won over some of the surliest people he’s ever met. Celestino says it’s because he’s sincere, which is the same reason judges love him. On the ice and off, he’s the same person, his heart ever on display.

But Seung-gil is sincere, too.

The last time Phichit and Seung-gil actually had something resembling a conversation, it was after Four Continents in 2015. Seung-gil landed a clean quad loop, got a voracious round of applause for both his programs, but he didn’t place, and he vanished before the medaling ceremony. Phichit didn’t think he’d see him again until later that night when Seung-gil happened to walk out of the same hotel elevator Phichit had been waiting for.

“Seung-gil!” he said, smiling. “A bunch of us are going to this place Guang Hong recommended. You’ll come, right?”

Seung-gil only said, “No, I’m good,” and kept walking.

Phichit had expected as much. He said, “Okay, congratulations, by the way!” and stepped into the elevator car, pressing the lobby button and wondering who else to invite.

Down the hall and somewhat belated, Seung-gil said, “Thank you,” over his shoulder.

The elevator doors shut on the slow start of Phichit’s warm, answering smile.

•

Phichit uses his summer as efficiently as he can. He skates three times a week, drilling until exhaustion creeps up on him. On the publicity front, he makes a few TV appearances, befriends some big-name YouTubers, and starts to drop hints about his dream ice show on social media. He’s still years out from making it a reality, but if he can drum up enough interest in the meantime, it’ll make the production easier to promote later.

For his body, he makes an effort to wake up even earlier than usual and adds yoga to his daily routine. He tries ballet again for the second time in his life and remembers all the reasons it’s not for him. The teacher compliments his flexibility, but there’s something innate about it that he’s just not getting. His body wants to make different movements, and the teacher purses his lips at him more than once. He gives up after two weeks, and writes to Celestino for advice.

They discuss a variety of options, different ways to incorporate dance into his training, and all the while Phichit feels plagued by the urge to dance. It itches under the soles of his feet whenever he crosses his living room or descends the stairs in the train station, similar to the constant urge he feels to skate.

One evening, Phichit launches into a solo dance party in his kitchen while he makes dinner. He records some of it and uploads a short clip to Instagram. As he rests flat on his back in the living room, panting, he adds the hashtag #dancepartyforone.

Seung-gil is the third one to like it.

Phichit stares, then texts Supatra with a screencap and a shocked emoji.

She writes back immediately. [So we’ve accepted we have a crush, have we.]

He laughs and obeys a silly urge to roll from side to side while he types, [Mayyyyyyybe.]

There’s no denying the rush of excitement he feels seeing Seung-gil's username among the hundreds accumulating below it. That it seems out of character for Seung-gil just means there’s more to him than Phichit gave him credit for, and Phichit’s curiosity is definitely piqued.

After dinner and a bath and quality hamster time, snuggled in bed cocooned within his eight entirely necessary pillows, Phichit indulges himself and investigates Seung-gil's hashtag. There isn’t much from Seung-gil himself, but Seung-gil's fans are many and dedicated. Amid the photos of Seung-gil at competitions or practicing and the few candid shots of Seung-gil in airports or out on the streets of Seoul, there’s a very recent professional video uploaded by user andjoy_studio.

Phichit clicks on it, and his life changes.

•

The song is something by an all-female Kpop group. Seung-gil and his teacher are the only two in the frame, but by the three second mark, Phichit’s gaze is fixed on Seung-gil alone.

Every move and step he makes is perfect, but it’s the raw flourishes he adds that have Phichit feeling both impressed and curiously proud. On behalf of the figure skating community, maybe. He’s always glad to see one of his competitors excel in something off the ice, but this…feels different somehow.

Seung-gil's white T-shirt is loose but supple enough that whenever he rolls his torso, the fabric slicks to the curve of his body. From the beginning, Seung-gil's eyes are almost unfocused, his expression unguarded. When he pushes a hand down his stomach, Phichit exhales.

He double-taps without thinking.

•

Four minutes later, one of Phichit’s fans writes on Twitter, [Phichit liked a video of Seung-gil's erotic dancing!!! It wasn’t even posted by Seung-gil!! Is Phichit looking things up?!? WHAT IS HAPPENING??!!] She retweets a link to the video in question.

Someone else whose icon features Seung-gil wearing his 2016 NHK Trophy silver medal uploads a screenshot of Seung-gil's username listed among those who liked Phichit’s impromptu dance video. Seung-gil's username has been circled in lime green and at the bottom of the screenshot, bold white text outlined in black reads, **SHOTS FUCKING FIRED!!!!!**

Someone with an icon of Phichit in his free skate costume from last year tweets, [PHICHIT ALSO FOLLOWS HIM ON INSTAGRAM. …NOT THAT THAT MEANS ANYTHING. WHATEVER, WE NEED A PAIRING NAME.]

To Phichit’s absolute amazement, a user with a close-up of Seung-gil's thighs as an icon replies, [HOW DO YOU NOT KNOW ABOUT SEUNGCHUCHU.]

A user with the group selfie Phichit posted from the GPF as an icon tweets, [Heart. Fucking. Broken. Phichit, my king, WHYYYYY????] followed by twelve crying emoji, the broken heart emoji, and a crying gif of Yuuri from his record-breaking free skate at the GPF.

One of their followers whose icon is a screenshot of Seung-gil from the video that _caused_ all this responds, [If you had to lose him to someone, Seung-gil is worthy.]

Phichit retrieves his hamsters for moral support and then clicks on the hashtag “seungchuchu”.

It’s quite the education. He likes a few tweets and giggles quietly to himself as utter chaos unfolds.

•

Supatra FaceTimes him _just_ to laugh at him.

She laughs for seven seconds, tells him she loves him, then ends the call because she’s expected on the center court at Wimbledon in three minutes.

•

Yuuri’s a little nicer. He doesn’t call at all.

Because he’s engaged to Viktor Nikiforov and he’s probably not stalking Phichit’s social media activity.

•

Chris is.

Phichit gets a FaceTime call from him while Chris is taking a break from swimming laps. “I watched the video,” Chris says, smirking. “I agree.”

For the first time in recent memory, Phichit blushes.

“We have a pairing hashtag too, you know,” Chris tells him with a wink.

Phichit laughs. “Should we misbehave on it?”

“ _Absolutement, mon trésor_.”

That’s how the _Phichit Chulanont, Lothario of Figure Skating_ meme is born.

•

A look at his calendar confirms that Phichit’s next three days are free, so he spends them with his parents and off social media entirely (mostly) (kind of).

The moment he walks in the door, however, his mother scoops him into a hug and coos, “Why alone? Where’s the boyfriend?”

Phichit moans and hides his face in her shoulder. “Mama, there’s no boyfriend.”

“Why not? He’s beautiful!”

“Do you mean Chris or Seung-gil?”

“Ai, listen to this boy.” She laughs and pulls back, cupping his cheek in the palm of her hand fondly.

“I just liked Seung-gil's video, Mama, that’s all!”

“So did I,” she says. “Your papa liked it, too. He used to dance, you know. He’s the one who suggested we learn samba from those YouTube videos. So, what’s his name again? Song-y?”

For the second time in as many days, Phichit blushes and hides it behind the wall of his hands.

•

The next afternoon his mother enlists his help in building a hanging herb garden for the windowsill. She has over sixty DIY videos saved on Facebook that she’s been diligently working her way through over the past year, some to great success and others…well. This one is starting to seem like it’ll be in the “…” category.

When Phichit’s phone lights up with Guang Hong’s photo, Phichit stares at it, surprised. Guang Hong usually just sends him messages.

“Go ahead,” his mother says, waving her hand. She’s absorbed in the video they’re trying to follow. “I think we missed a step. I’ll watch this a few times to get my bearings back.”

He kisses her temple as she grumbles about cheap, ineffective wood glue and swipes his screen to answer. “Hey!”

“ _You’re dating Seung-gil?_ ”

Phichit rubs the back of his neck, smiling. “No, I’m not.”

“Oh.” Guang Hong’s voice is rife with disappointment for some reason.

Phichit laughs. “Why?”

“Well, I didn’t think you were. But he wrote that thing on your Instagram this morning so—”

Phichit’s eyes widen. “What thing?”

“ _You didn’t see it yet?_ Where are you? Dead?”

Phichit freezes, his mind scrambling on eight separate tracks. “Mama, I’ll be right back!” He bolts into his bedroom, switches Guang Hong to speakerphone, and changes tabs to Instagram. “Guang Hong, which photo? When? This morning at what time? The first time I turn my notifications off in three years…!”

Guang Hong is laughing, but at his core he’s too sweet to let Phichit languish in the miasmatic grip of emotional limbo. “I’ll just send you a screenshot and you can find the real thing later.”

“Are you sure it’s not Photoshopped?” Phichit asks. His heart is thick and pulsing in his throat. “What did he even say? Does he know what’s been going on? Crap, crap, crap.” It’s his favorite English curse word, and he foresees getting a lot of mileage out of it soon.

“Here, I just sent it. I took this one myself, don’t worry. It’s real.”

He thumbs the notification and expands the photo, trembling a little when he sees Seung-gil's username underneath the last photo Phichit updated before he left his apartment yesterday, a shot of himself holding scissors up to his bangs and making a contemplative face.

Seung-gil's written, [Don’t cut it. You look good.]

“Fuck,” Phichit breathes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on what I have right now, I think this is going to clock in at 20k. So, y'know, remember I said that when I turn out to be wrong.
> 
> Also! That whole Shower Incident from [If It's You](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10797015) will be partially addressed here. ;D
> 
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/hadakanomind) | [Tumblr](http://kyashin.tumblr.com/)


	2. Chapter 2

Guang Hong seems to understand Phichit’s sudden inability to form continuously coherent sentences and bows out of the conversation smoothly. Phichit spends a few more minutes staring down at the comment that’s hurtled a brick of feelings at his gut, then sneaks up to the roof of his parents’ apartment building to think. He braces his forearms on the ledge and his chin on his forearms and stares out over the strewn lights of the city.

So. Seung-gil.

Phichit knows the man hasn’t posted a photo since _October_ and—according to the complaints of Seung-gil’s fans on Twitter—he’s neither commented nor liked anything since _January_. Within a week, he’s liked one of Phichit’s videos and commented on one of his photos. For someone like Seung-gil, who barely speaks when spoken to and doesn’t seem to have ever dated, that’s a clear gesture.

Phichit would describe his own dating experience as shallow. He dated extensively in Detroit—at least compared to Yuuri—and almost got to the point of actual penetrative sex twice, but ultimately no one made his heart rush the way he thought it should for that level of intimacy. He enjoyed dates, enjoyed making out on dates even more, and the first guy who sucked him off kissed his cheek afterward and admitted he’d been crushing on Phichit for months. Phichit enjoyed all of it, but he never feel that _need_ he’s heard so much about. He never felt a crackle of urgency in the kisses he shared with the guys he went out with, nor a pang in his heart when he parted ways with them later.

This feels different. Maybe because Phichit’s known Seung-gil since they were ten, and he’s been a peripheral presence in Phichit’s life from adolescence all through their teenage years. They share a craft, and passion for that craft that might be more alike than Phichit knows. Even the handful of times they’ve spoken are etched so clearly in Phichit’s memory that he has almost perfect recall of them.

If this were simple attraction, it would be easier to process. Phichit knows the power his lips and body and winged eyeliner wield on the men he pursues. He could have Seung-gil if he tried, probably. But this has become a full-blown _crush_ , and the rules are different with a crush.

“For example, I’m probably too old to be using the word ‘crush’,” Phichit murmurs wryly against his arm.

Continuing in the name of undiluted honesty, Phichit admits that he wants more than something physical.

Seung-gil is passionate, driven, and direct to the point of rude, and he’s been that way as long as Phichit’s known him. But he knows Seung-gil can be polite, too. He’s also apparently got a whole undercurrent of sexual confidence hardly anyone knew he had in him.

It’s a little intimidating.

Phichit lifts his arms up toward the sky until his muscles stretch with a pleasurable burn. He knows his own worth. He’s just as passionate as Seung-gil, just as driven, and probably a little bit more tactful but no less honest. They might make a good match if they can find more common ground to bond on.

The question now is what to do next?

Phichit worries his bottom lip between his teeth. With anyone else this would be straightforward. He’d get in touch with a mutual friend for Seung-gil's contact information, then try to arrange some kind of group meet-up. He’d get a better feel for their compatibility in a low-key environment, then decide whether or not to suggest something more private next time.

Unfortunately, as far as Phichit knows, they don’t have any mutual friends. The closest they get is Tae-woo, who never liked Seung-gil and probably doesn’t have his contact information. Phichit isn’t even sure Seung-gil _has_ friends, but of course he must. Somewhere. After all, no one knew about Otabek’s horde of non-skating friends until little Yuri found his DJing Instagram account in January.

Phichit takes a breath and releases it, pushing off from the ledge. Time for recon.

•

Naturally, Seung-gil's fans have done most of the legwork for him already. Within two hours he knows the following:

1) The dance studio Seung-gil studies at is in Seoul, called AND JOY. His teacher from the video is a famous hip hop choreographer named Joelë who lived and worked in California for sixteen years.

2) Seung-gil's coach, Min-so, tweeted about the video six days ago. Phichit copies and pastes the Korean writing into an automatic translator, but he can’t make perfect sense of it in either Thai or English. Something about Seung-gil studying several forms of dance in order to incorporate new elements into his programs.

3) International fans on Seung-gil's Facebook community page regularly speculate on Seung-gil’s love life. The most recent consensus seems to be that since Sara Crispino worked with Joelë on her short program last year, she must be dating Seung-gil.

Phichit merrily ignores that and opens up a message to Sara.

[Saaaaaraaaaaa! :(]

[Hi, Phichit! ♡ What’s wrong?]

[I have a favor to ask you.]

[Yes, you can have Seung-gil's contact info. May you have better luck than I did!!]

[Ahahaha! Is everyone following this???]

[Pretty much! I heard about it from Mila. Apparently Georgi does dramatic readings of his favorite fan tweets every morning in the locker rooms. He’s rooting for you two. ;)]

[…!!!]

•

When a search on his messaging app using Seung-gil's phone number yields the username “seunggil_133” and a green “follow” button, Phichit hesitates. There’s an enormity in what he’s about to do—making a move this significant shouldn’t be so easy, should it?

So he decides to sleep on it.

The next morning, Celestino doesn’t comment on his distraction until Phichit lands wrong and falls on his shoulder.

“That’s enough!” he calls. “Bring it in.”

Phichit climbs to his feet and skates over to the edge, rubbing his bicep until the twinge fades. “Sorry,” he says, short of breath. “It’s been a weird few days.”

Celestino reaches over the barrier and pats his head. “Anything you need to talk about?” he asks.

Phichit gives him a sheepish smile through his fringe. “Boy trouble?”

Celestino throws his head back and laughs. “I thought as much! Is it bad trouble or so-so trouble?”

“Only so-so,” Phichit says, seesawing his hand for emphasis. “I’m not sure I know what to do to move forward with him. I thought I knew what I was doing, but I’m actually a little nervous. I’ve never been nervous before.” He picks at his sleeve. Now that he’s admitted it out loud, he understands the sting of fear that's been plaguing him.

Celestino leans on the barricade. “That might be because it really means something to you this time,” he says.

Phichit smiles through the fierce tug in his chest. “Yeah, I thought about that. I think it does. I don’t know him very well, but I think we’d be good together.”

“He’s a good kid,” Celestino agrees. “Not as naturally charismatic as you, but I’m sure he has hidden depths.”

Phichit stares. “What?”

Celestino winks. “Coaches talk.” He raps the barrier with his knuckles. “Take a few cool down laps and you’re done for the day.” As he walks away, he whistles what Phichit recognizes as the song from Seung-gil's dance video.

•

When Phichit gets back to his apartment, he collects his hamsters and brings them to his bed. “Papa’s either making a very smart move, or a very stupid one,” he tells them. “But the longer he waits, the crazier he’s going to become.”

Arthur, the littlest and bravest, climbs Phichit’s sleeve and sits on his shoulder.

Phichit interprets that as encouragement and presses “follow”.

He waits, breath held.

What time is it in Seoul? Is Seung-gil even in Seoul right now? Maybe he’s in the bath. Or the shower.

…Or maybe he isn’t staring at his messaging app waiting for people to add him to their list of contacts.

Groaning, Phichit chides himself for acting ridiculous and opens up a new message window for Seung-gil. Then he hesitates.

[Hi,] is stupid. But so is, [You’re such a beautiful dancer I moved your position in the fantasy ice show I’ve been dreaming of doing closer to mine.]

In the end he goes with, [I followed your advice,] and sends it with a trembling exhale.

He rereads it a few times and gasps when ‘Read’ pops up beneath it.

“Fuck!” he squeaks.

Arthur retreats back down his arm, startled.

Phichit says, “Sorry, Arthur!” and tends to his frightened baby. Because he’s a good hamster papa and not because he’s terrified.

He switches off his phone screen and carries his three hamsters back to their wired home. He feeds them some treats, refills their water, and pets each of them for about thirty seconds each (no playing favorites, even though his favorite is Arthur and the other two probably suspect as much). When there isn’t anything reasonable left to do for his hamsters, Phichit admits that if he keeps tormenting himself like this, he’ll end up Skyping Chris to whine, and then Chris will laugh at him.

As Phichit returns to bed, grimacing, he recalls every date he’s ever been on where he felt confident, wanted, and secure. He thinks of how coolly he faced the end of his last relationship, when Noah—a hockey player from Alberta—told Phichit back in Detroit that he wanted to end things before they got too serious. Phichit remembers agreeing and even feeling a little relieved. They’ve stayed casual acquaintances since then.

When Phichit picks up his phone now, his hand is shaking.

For the first time in his life, he feels truly exposed, and he’s barely _done_ anything yet.

He unlocks the screen and his breath leaves him in a rush.

[About your hair? Good.]

A hopeful grin curves Phichit’s lips while his heart hammers. Before he loses the euphoric thrill of adrenaline giving him courage, he types, [I thought I should trust your judgment,] and sends it.

The ‘Read’ shows up instantly. [Why?]

Phichit licks his lips. [Because yours is gorgeous.]

(Many years from now, Seung-gil will read these messages one by one in his most monotone voice while Phichit beats him over the back with a pillow.)

•

By unspoken agreement, they don’t mention Seung-gil's video or Phichit’s video or Instagram or social media at all. They don’t talk about their fans who are watching every move they make, hyper-vigilant for updates. They don’t even really bring up skating all that often.

Phichit’s determined to find common ground elsewhere. To confirm his belief that they can make a relationship work, even if things start out slow. Even if it’s not the grand, beatific romance Yuuri and Viktor have.

Phichit links Seung-gil to a tourism video about Seoul that he found on Instagram and asks how many of the restaurants on the list Seung-gil’s visited.

[None,] Seung-gil writes back, surprisingly prompt. Then, a moment later, [I don’t eat out a lot.] Phichit is typing in “why?” when a third message arrives, stacked below the other two. [I cook.]

Phichit can actually _hear_ the stilted pauses and hesitance in Seung-gil’s voice, almost as if he were here in Phichit’s bedroom (and isn’t _that_ something he shouldn’t be thinking about right now).

[That’s cool!] he writes, sends, and regrets sending.

To make up for the unforgivable genericness, Phichit hurries to add, [Do you have any photos of what you’ve cooked?]

Instead of writing back, Seung-gil sends four photos. The first is of pasta with tomato sauce; the second is of pasta with pesto sauce; the third is of pasta with oil or butter; the fourth is of plain toast.

Phichit snuggles deeper into his pillows, warm from the amusement and fondness coursing through him. [I can’t decide if you’re making a joke,] he writes.

Seung-gil sends back a stamp of a cartoon hamster with a question mark over its head, which effectively derails Phichit’s curiosity.

[WHERE DID YOU GET THAT?]

Again, Seung-gil doesn’t answer with words. He sends a screenshot of the free stamp set display, and Phichit is off like a shot to find and download it. He’s not sure it’s likely that Seung-gil would have downloaded these hamster stamps totally independent of Phichit’s influence. But there’s still a lot that Phichit doesn’t know about Seung-gil, and whether Seung-gil downloaded these stamps because he genuinely likes hamsters or because Phichit likes them doesn’t matter. Either way, the man has hamster stamps, and Phichit is honestly tempted to draft a marriage proposal.

•

Seven days into their exchange of messages (and stamps), Phichit sends the photo of ten-year-old Seung-gil along with a playful, [See anyone familiar?]

Seung-gil's response is slow enough to arrive that Phichit is convinced this is going to be a repeat of Day Four, when Seung-gil got back from practice, fell asleep at four in the afternoon, and didn’t wake up and answer Phichit’s message until four in the morning.

Seung-gil’s response, when it arrives, says only, [I remember that.]

Phichit isn’t proud of the noise he makes, but his hamsters are loyal and will never tell on him.

[Oh?] is all he writes. He adds a smiley face.

[You were blocking my view.]

Phichit stares at his screen, heart plummeting for a moment until Seung-gil sends a solemn-faced emoticon, apparently to make his wry tone clearer.

It strikes Phichit then to wonder if Seung-gil’s sense of humor is so dry it’s never been noticed.

[Ha ha,] he writes back, and sends Seung-gil's chosen emoticon back to him. Since they started messaging, Phichit’s been waffling back and forth over whether to share his mother’s note about Seung-gil trying to talk to him. Now, in light of this sass, Phichit makes up his mind and sends it.

‘Read’ immediately shows up beneath the photo, but Seung-gil doesn’t reply for a long time. Long enough that Phichit starts to feel a little mean. Text is so easy to misunderstand, especially in one’s second language. He might not like the interpretation of the past Phichit’s mother came up with, or—

[I’m sorry.]

Phichit stares at the apology, but it’s just as baffling fifteen seconds later. [Why???] he writes.

Another ‘Read’. An even longer pause. Phichit starts to wonder if Seung-gil’s silence means this is the end of their conversation. He groans and buries his face in one of his pillows. Maybe it’s for the best. Maybe Seung-gil isn’t _that_ interested, not enough to make something between them last. Maybe devastatingly romantic intercultural love stories between competitive skaters are only meant for the Yuuris and Viktors of the world.

When his phone chimes again, Phichit peeks a little fearfully.

His heart swells.

[That day, I was there with my brothers. They didn’t want to take me, so they ignored me. You and your mother were laughing. Your mother talked to everyone around her. She smiled at me. I don’t know why I sat next to you. I couldn’t speak anything but Korean at the time. I was embarrassed, so I moved. Then you looked sad. I’m sorry.]

Phichit absorbs every word slowly. There’s a lot there, and a lot more unsaid that Seung-gil probably doesn’t even know how to express. Phichit rereads the whole thing twice before he knows what he wants to say.

[My first impression of you was good, if that makes you feel better,] he writes, warmth in his smile that Seung-gil can’t see.

[It was?]

[Yeah. I thought you were pretty.] He sends it, less afraid this time, even though he’s gone as far out onto the limb as he dares to go.

Seung-gil just writes back, [How about now?]

Phichit grins, immediately takes a screenshot of their conversation, and runs to his printer to begin the process of framing this moment for his Wall of Memorable Chats in the hallway.

•

The next day, Phichit skates better than he has in weeks, and Celestino shouts, “Good work! Again!”

When he tries a quad flip and falls, Celestino shouts, “ _Not that!_ ”

•

It isn’t entirely surprising to find out that Seung-gil is a decent conversationist when the conversation is in writing, features long delays between responses, and takes place thousands of kilometers away from the person with whom he’s conversing. One evening, Phichit shares a story about how he came to hate grapes (snuck a few as a child and choked on the large seeds) and from there they start exchanging little stories from their childhoods.

One evening, Seung-gil writes, [A little before I was born, my family rescued a kitten from the river near our apartment. We named him Sonny. He slept with me every night and died when I was in high school. I didn’t want another cat, so I got Sunja.]

Another day, Phichit writes, [I left Thailand for the first time when I was nine. I got sick from something on the plane, so the first thing I did overseas was throw up on Spain. Whenever I hear Spanish I feel a little guilty. ^^;]

Yesterday, Seung-gil wrote, [My oldest brother made me eat his vegetables when my parents weren’t looking. When I was little I thought I had to, until my father caught him and he got in trouble. After that, I told him I’d still eat them but he had to pay me. My other brother heard about it and he started paying me too. I got a lot of money, but now I hate vegetables.]

Now, as Phichit boards the plane for his first competition of the season, he writes, [When I first got interested in skating, my mother took me to the rink every day after school. The owner told my mother, ‘If you promise me that boy will win an Olympic medal for Thailand someday, I’ll let him have the rink to himself every Tuesday morning.’]

[Did she?]

[She did. ♡]

Phichit toes his bag underneath the seat in front of him, reluctant to put his phone away long enough to do it by hand. His eyes are fixed on the ‘Read’.

Seung-gil's response is quick. [You’ll have that chance next year.]

Phichit smiles, resisting the very real and almost overpowering urge to snuggle into his seat to cope with the giddiness rushing through him. [So will you,] he types. [Taking off soon.]

‘Read’. Then, more quickly than usual, as if Seung-gil wasn’t sure it would get through to him in time: [Have a safe flight.]

Phichit writes, [Thanks~] and sends it.

He glances at his coach who is very politely not smirking even though Phichit suspects he was peeking. Phichit turns his phone pointedly toward the window and stares at the screen. Licking his lips, he takes a leap.

[I really like talking to you.]

‘Read’.

Phichit closes his eyes, his heart swelling with fear and hope. The safety video begins. Celestino adjusts his seatbelt. The plane starts to taxi.

When he opens his eyes, the screen is still on, and from Seung-gil waits a simple response.

[Me too.]

•

Phichit returns from the Rostelecom Cup with a silver medal, fresh determination, and the satisfaction of mischief managed.

Even though he and Seung-gil haven’t publicly acknowledged each other in any way since Phichit liked Seung-gil's video back in July, their fans’ enthusiasm has yet to abate, evidenced by the husky plushes that found their way onto the ice after Phichit finished his programs.

He skated past them after his short, picking up a customary hamster instead. But the next day, after his free, he circled around more than usual to perk up the crowd’s curiosity. He decided on the smallest husky he could find, one he knew would fit into his carry-on, and scooped it up into the cradle of his arm. The memory of the audience laughing and applauding more loudly is warm like pastel in his memory. He proceeded to make the husky plush sit on his shoulder in the kiss and cry, pretending not to hear the audience erupt into cheers.

When his plane lands in Bangkok, Phichit switches off his phone’s airplane mode and waits while torrents of social media mentions and private messages pour in.

Chief among them, Yuuri’s written, [ขอแสดงความยินดี! You were amazing, Phichit-kun! See you in France!] along with a winking selfie of Yuuri in what appears to be his bedroom at his family’s inn.

Supatra’s written, [I expect to be invited over VERY soon for stories!!!]

Chris has written, [Ton costume est vraiment magnifique. Que puis-je t’offrir à boire? ;)]

Leo’s written, [congrats again, man! ignore guang hong if he asks you anything weird.]

Guang Hong’s written, [PHICHIT CONGRATULATIONS! ขอแสดงความยินดี!!! (Are you dating him NOW???)]

Little Yuri’s written, [Your programs this year are impressive. I look forward to facing you at the GPF.]

Viktor’s written, [I didn't have enough competition as it is, I see. ;)]

Otabek, who took home gold, has written, [Congratulations, Phichit. Your free skate music is beautiful. I’ve actually considered using the same composer in the past. I think you did it justice. I look forward to meeting you again in December. Have a safe trip home.]

He saves Seung-gil’s for last, and it brings the widest smile to his face.

[Did you take it home with you?]

Phichit sends back a selfie of himself and the small husky touching noses.

Seung-gil replies, [Cute.]

Phichit tries to imagine Seung-gil saying that out loud and nearly melts onto the floor of the plane.

Their exchange continues until Phichit gets home and once there, he forgoes showering for two whole hours until Seung-gil starts his dance lesson. The moment Seung-gil writes, [Talk to you in a bit,] Phichit writes back, [Have fun!] and drops his phone like a burning coal. He bolts to the bathroom with a prolonged cry of nauseated triumph, shedding his horrible plane-stale clothes as he goes.

Arching his back to feel the full brunt of the scalding shower spray, Phichit marvels at how serious this is getting. He _delayed a shower_ for this man.

•

It seems as good a time as any to seek counsel. They’ve been exchanging messages for nearly two months, and flirtation has been fairly obvious on both ends. It seems natural to suggest meeting in person, but…

“But?” Sara prompts. She sounds and looks deceptively innocent.

Phichit levels the camera of his tablet with an accusing pointed finger. “Stop making that face,” he says, aiming for stern and landing somewhere south of petulant.

Sara’s in someone’s kitchen, drinking some variety of dark green smoothie while Phichit explains his plight to her. Of his friends, he judged her the most compassionate and the least likely to laugh at him. It would now seem that he was off the mark on that.

“There’s no face,” Sara says, still making said face.

Phichit navigates around this glaring lie and says, “ _Saaaraaa_ ,” as he flops forward onto his bed and whines long and loud.

She laughs. “Okay, okay. Relax. Look, he never even responded to my messages. The fact that you’re texting this regularly—and flirting!—means he’s interested.”

Phichit turns his head and peers at his phone in his outstretched hand. Her expression has become slightly more sympathetic, so he sighs, “Yeah, but what do I _do_ about it?”

She hums like she’s considering the question. Then she puts her lips around the straw and hollows her cheeks.

Phichit squawks. “Sara!”

She winks and says, “It’s what I’d do.”

Mila’s face pops up beside Sara’s. “Same,” she says. Then she presses her lips to Sara’s cheek and purrs, “Off to shower, love. Bye, Phichit!”

Sara, once more alone in the frame, chews the end of the straw with an impish smile. Sara, Phichit’s friend who has clearly decided that devastatingly romantic intercultural love stories between competitive skaters is less "impossible" and more "a new trend to follow".

Phichit stares at her for a solid six seconds, then wails, “ _You didn’t let me get a screenshot!_ ”

From there, the conversation swiftly and permanently derails.

•

That night, Phichit looks up romantic dating spots in Seoul as heat fills his core.

•

Seung-gil starts to pack a week later for his first competition at Skate Canada. When Phichit offers to help him as a joke, Seung-gil sends him five photos of what Phichit is convinced are the same pair of warmup pants photographed in different lighting along with the question, [Which works best for the after party?]

Phichit, who knows that Seung-gil doesn’t actually go to parties or functions unless his manager drags him there by his hair, writes back, [The second pair, definitely.]

Seung-gil sends back a stamp of three hamsters making a tiny ‘OK’ with their fluffy cartoon bodies.

Phichit adds it to the Wall of Memorable Chats, pretending not to notice that Seung-gil takes up about 60% of the wall’s real estate now.

It’s much, much later in the day while Phichit is doing yoga in his living room that Seung-gil’s next message arrives. He’s holding Dwi Pāda Viparita Dandāsana, breathing deeply, when his phone bleats out the chime he assigned to Seung-gil's number. Once he’s carefully moved out of the pose, gradually lowering first his shoulders and then his back to the mat, he scans the message.

[I don’t like my short program music,] Seung-gil’s written. No emoji, no stamp. Just a plain statement that makes Phichit’s stomach twist as he realizes Seung-gil wouldn’t tell this to many people.

[It’s a bit late to change…] he writes, opting to share his honest knee-jerk thought.

[I know.]

Phichit chews his lip. That doesn’t give him much to work with, so he changes tactics and asks, [When did you start disliking it?]

[I never liked it. My coach picked it.]

Phichit frowns. [You usually pick your music though, don’t you?] he writes.

[Yeah.]

Phichit waits. He runs a hand through his hair, frowning up at the screen even as a tendril of joy starts to unfurl inside him at being the one Seung-gil chose to hear this.

After a long pause, Seung-gil elaborates, [I lost confidence, so I let her pick.]

Phichit’s mouth parts around a silent noise of surprise. [How do you feel now?] he writes, eyes fixed to the screen.

[About what?]

[I mean, do you feel more confident now?]

[I don’t know.]

Phichit realizes he’s worrying his lip between his teeth and stops. [Why do you think you lost confidence?] It’s a thorny question and it might end up with an answer as simple as, _Because I had to sit the GPF out last year_ , but something tells Phichit it’s not that easy or Seung-gil wouldn’t have brought it up at all.

[Katsuki.]

Phichit smiles, pride and warmth and nerves filling his chest. [I know what you mean. I knew he’d be formidable one day.]

‘Read’. No response.

Phichit sets his phone down again and lifts his legs perpendicular to the floor, studying the lavender patterns he stenciled on his toenails earlier. Sometimes he and Seung-gil stop in the middle of a conversation, interrupted by any number of things. Pets, other messages, meals, showers, coaches, sleep. Phichit takes a deep breath and presses the heels of his hands into the mat, exhaling as he lifts his hips off the floor to try a position more familiar to him.

His phone lights up. Without moving out of the pose, Phichit cranes his neck to see the message and giggles.

[I had to look that up,] Seung-gil’s written. [Your English is scary.]

Phichit comes out of the pose and reaches for his phone again. [You mean formidable~?] he teases.

[No. Your skating is formidable. Your English is scary.]

Phichit laughs and covers his face with his free hand to hide his eyes. It’s enough of a battle to read statements like this. If he had to hear them from Seung-gil directly, Phichit dreads the noises he’d make.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeeeah, so it's at 15k now. ...30k? Maybe? :D?
> 
> I've also decided I'm gonna attempt Sunday updates, so! See you next week! \:D/


	3. Chapter 3

Supatra comes over to watch Skate Canada with him, bearing her mom’s cooking and a cord to hook up his laptop to his TV.

“You're brilliant,” Phichit calls out earnestly from the kitchen.

She waves her hand, the rest of her hidden behind the flatscreen.

“Who’s skating now?”

“One of the tall Russians who isn’t dating your friend!”

Georgi then. Phichit grins and digs into the container of brown rice and lamb that Supatra brought over. The aroma carries just enough mint to make Phichit’s mouth water, reminding him why Supatra’s mother has become a minor celebrity chef among Supatra’s friends. Even though he doesn’t feel as ravenous as he normally does by this time of night, he’s eager to start eating.

Supatra successfully links the stream to his TV, and the sound in the living room increases. “So,” Supatra shouts, “are you dating him or what?” The volume from the TV quickly retreats to a murmur.

Phichit hums to himself. “How do we even define that now?” he calls back. “I mean…we talk every day, I think we’re flirting—I am, at least—and I’m pretty sure we’ve both commented on finding each other mutually attractive, so…no, we’re not, but…we could? I guess?”

Supatra strides into the kitchen with a proud smile and bows as Phichit applauds her technological expertise. She springs up onto the counter and picks up one of the steaming bowls Phichit’s prepared. “Okay,” she says. “Well, those sound like promising signs. Can I see his messages?”

“Of course not!” he says. He almost covers his heart to complete the shocked tableau, but Supatra’s already grinning, so he skips it and unlocks his phone.

After five minutes, their food has cooled and Supatra has read through the most recent half of his conversations with Seung-gil. She hands his phone back and Phichit takes up a spot between her thighs. She continues eating, balancing her bowl on his head, and he checks Twitter, giving her time to consider.

“It’s weird,” Supatra says.

Phichit, mindful of the bowl on his head, strains to look up at her and only winds up with a better view of his kitchen ceiling. “What?” he prompts.

“Nothing,” she says. “It’s just odd that neither of you has, you know, asked the other one out. You’re right—you’re both flirting, he even calls you cute…is it a distance thing, you think? If you lived closer to each other, one of you might do something about it?”

“No, I don’t think that’s it,” Phichit says. He taps her arm and she takes the bowl away so he can lift himself up to sit beside her. “Or, I don’t know. I’m really not sure. I don’t think he’s ever been in a relationship before. Neither have I. Maybe we’re at a stalemate? Waiting for the other one to ask?”

She jostles his shoulder with hers, smiling. “What about Tae-woo? Your thing with him doesn’t count as a relationship?”

“No,” Phichit says, laughing. “That was…something different.”

Tae-woo was his first kiss. At sixteen, they made out on a ferry in Hong Kong, hidden away from the other skaters on the stairwell leading to the parking area on a lower deck. They didn’t get to see each other very often after that, but every meeting involved kisses and wandering hands that always pushed things one step further.

It only ended when Tae-woo quit skating in university. He gradually stopped responding to Phichit’s messages, and then Phichit moved to Detroit. Phichit wondered for a while if the sore spot in his chest was heartbreak, but in retrospect he probably just missed the convenience of having a guaranteed kissing partner whose mouth always felt so perfectly soft and eager against his.

“I think your boy’s up next,” Supatra tells him with another nudge.

They carry their plates into the next room and Phichit curls into the sofa with a pillow on his lap and a knotted stomach. Supatra’s turned off both of the standing lamps on either side of his flatscreen, leaving the candles on his coffee table to take control of the room’s ambiance. Phichit takes an absentminded photo of their feet propped up on the table, their gold-painted toes bathed in amber candlelight, and uploads it with a few general hashtags. While Supatra devours her food, Phichit watches Seung-gil take to the center of the ice.

Months of focused dance practice have given Seung-gil’s body a dancer’s definition, and the glistening planes of his short program costume only emphasize the new slender muscles in his back and stomach. Phichit sighs, “Oh,” and ignores Supatra’s fond, exasperated noise.

It’s one thing, writing to him every day. Flirting through text from a safe, detached distance. Seeing Seung-gil like this—in his element, where he belongs—bores through Phichit’s chest into a whole new well of feeling.

It’s during this moment of reflection that Seung-gil’s program begins.

Phichit takes a long, focused inhale.

If they hadn’t discussed Seung-gil’s short program music so recently, Phichit is positive he wouldn’t have guessed how Seung-gil feels about it. It’s epic and hopeful, like a battle theme in a fantasy adventure movie. It’s a wise choice by Min-so, considering Seung-gil’s discomfort with openly emotional performances. His stoic expression suits the music, and his clean landings add powerful accents to the piece.

Phichit grips the pillow in his lap every time he jumps.

“He’s doing well,” Supatra says.

Phichit makes an absent noise.

The first time Seung-gil falls, Phichit knows it’s going to happen. He sees the angle of Seung-gil’s skate and hisses reflexively. It only takes a second for Seung-gil to crumple and another two to get back up, but Phichit feels each one pass as if it were a full minute. Seung-gil pushes back into his choreography, his shoulder and hip coated in shavings from the ice, but his earlier rhythm is gone.

“Come on,” Phichit says, urgent.

Seung-gil hesitates before his next jump, and then he rushes into it to compensate. He falls again.

Supatra doesn’t comment, but Phichit can see her wince out of the corner of his eye.

Seung-gil makes up points where he can toward the end and expends the last of his energy on a shaky quad toe loop. He _might_ scrape by with bronze if the judges are feeling generous toward him. At the end, Seung-gil lifts his right arm into his final pose, his chest heaving and his jaw trembling.

For once, his every emotion is etched out for the world to see.

Phichit realizes his phone is back in his hands, gripped tight as he wonders what he’s going to write to make this better. A new fear grips his heart, but he can’t put a name to it.

In the kiss and cry, Min-so circles her arm around Seung-gil’s shoulder and, to Phichit’s surprise, he leans against her. He doesn’t look up from his skates when his score is announced and only nods, wilted, when Min-so repeats it to him in what Phichit assumes is Korean.

“I think he needs a hug,” Supatra says. Perhaps in lieu of giving him one herself, she tucks Phichit under her arm and gives him a squeeze.

•

Seung-gil doesn’t answer his messages.

•

The next day, Seung-gil’s free skate boosts him to second, but it’s a short-lived victory. The two skaters after him are Yuuri and Little Yuri, who take home gold and silver. Seung-gil loses bronze to Michele by three points.

His post-competition interview is short and generic and soft-spoken.

He couldn’t look more defeated.

•

Phichit doesn’t get a message from Seung-gil that night, or the next.

Fans send a barrage of encouragement to Seung-gil’s almost barren Twitter and Instagram accounts. They know him well enough to send calculations as comfort, all meant to show him he still has a path to the GPF open for him, if a little narrower than it was before. He doesn’t respond to any of it, of course.

Phichit opens his messenger app again and again. His message, [You’ll turn it around in New York!] sits unanswered, unacknowledged, except for the lonely ‘Read’ beneath it.

•

[How’s your boy?] Supatra writes three days after Skate Canada.

[No idea,] Phichit writes back, and she kindly shifts subjects.

•

Celestino sends reminders about Internationaux de France to Phichit at least once a day, even when they don’t meet. Phichit brushes off his coach’s concern again and again until one morning when he falls so many times dark bruises stain his ass and left hip. He admits then, only to himself, that he might be fixated on Seung-gil to his own detriment. Waking up that night at three in the morning from a burst of pain because he rolled onto his bruised side drives the point the rest of the way home.

It doesn’t stop him from worrying.

He knows Seung-gil isn’t upset with him, but his silence emphasizes how wide a place he’s taken in Phichit’s life. How happy Phichit’s been that one of the world’s least social skaters has been making an active effort to chat regularly with him.

But Phichit knows firsthand how the sour aftermath of an underperformed skate can rankle. How it feels to practice a program until the blisters on his feet open and rub against the insides of his skates. How the iron will inside him will push him to do it three more times, the pain a dull roar in the back of his mind. How easily the smallest mistakes can slip through in the most rehearsed areas. How it feels to miss the podium. To ice his feet on his own and accept it.

For Phichit, those failures push him to try again, to push himself harder. His skill improves every time he skates—why waste time pining for the medals that could have been?

But Seung-gil has a much different mindset. He sees every skate as an exercise in precision, a craft he can someday perfect if he gives it enough focus and practice. He doesn’t have an ace up his sleeve in the form of Phichit’s flair for presentation. When his formulas fall apart, so does everything else.

On November 3rd, as the Cup of China begins, Phichit sprawls on his bed with his hamsters asleep in the brace of his arms. He closes the stream on a whim and opens his chat with Seung-gil.

He writes and sends the first thing that comes to mind, something he’s been dwelling on as the GPF looms larger and larger on the horizon. [Does Victor intimidate you?]

After a few seconds of staring at the unchanging screen, Phichit switches back to the stream. The only skater left is Otabek, and Leo—currently in third—looks nervous.

In sync with the first swell of Otabek’s music, a message alert carrying Seung-gil’s response drops down from the top of Phichit’s screen. [I don’t know what that means.]

Phichit exhales and laughs in the same breath, surprised that he’s responded so quickly after days of nothing. Phichit quickly writes back, [You said Yuuri made you lose confidence. I’m just curious how you feel about Victor.]

Somehow, they haven’t really brought up Viktor since they started chatting. Viktor, who will likely take home gold tonight after a flawless free skate (clearly dedicated to his crying fiancé) that’s distanced his score from the others’ by a wide margin. Viktor, whose short program is lively and jovial, with all the technical prowess the world has come to expect from him, and whose free skate is the single most heartfelt, romantic piece of performance art Phichit has ever seen. (It’s even made Yakov cry, according to rumors from the Russian team.) Viktor, who has yet to face his fiancé or his protégé on the ice. Viktor, whose second competition is scheduled for the end of the month at Skate America in New York, where he’ll compete against a number of strong skaters including Seung-gil.

An athlete like Viktor can inspire a lot of emotions in his competitors. Phichit chooses to see him first as the living legend he is, and as Yuuri’s fiancé second. But it’s occurred to Phichit a number of times that Seung-gil, another skater seven years Viktor’s junior but far more removed from the social dynamics surrounding him, might see Viktor differently.

The Cup of China ends with Viktor gracefully in first, Otabek second, and Minami third.

Phichit promptly sends messages to all three of them, pride warm in his chest. He’s sure there’ll be a gif soon of Minami clutching his bronze medal and sobbing as he realizes he’s receiving a medal in the same venue where Yuuri won one the year before. He’s equally sure there’ll be one of Viktor patting Minami’s head and one of Yuuri cheering for both of them from the audience.

Phichit’s almost asleep when Seung-gil’s answer arrives.

[Sorry. I wanted to watch the whole thing. I also wanted to think about my answer. I’m not afraid of Nikiforov. He’s strong this season, but the gap has been closing. He’s skating for enjoyment, and his muscle memory is taking him the rest of the way. I don’t think he’s as motivated as he used to be.]

Phichit considers that, his eyebrows tucked close together. Viktor Nikiforov—unmotivated? Complacent, maybe, but—

[You’re the one I’m keeping my eye on.]

All thoughts of Viktor break away like rain off the window of a speeding train.

Seung-gil’s called him cute, complimented his hair—even implied once that he’s admired Phichit’s body in his free skate costume—but nothing he’s ever written has made Phichit’s heart thunder out of his chest like this.

Seung-gil…respects him.

•

“I definitely can’t meet him in person now,” he tells Sara, solemn. “I have an intimidating reputation to uphold.”

He doesn’t take it personally when she laughs.

•

A week later, Phichit FaceTimes Chris the morning of the NHK Trophy. It’s seven in Bangkok, nine in Osaka. There’s a quiet kind of peace to Chris that has Phichit’s interest spiked.

“I had dinner with Michele last night,” Chris tells him, which swiftly derails Phichit's train of thought.

“Just the two of you?”

“Mm.”

“Whoa. What was _that_ like?”

Chris sets his phone against one of the spare pillows as he sprawls out in bed, hugging the one pressed against his chest. “Not at all what I expected, to be honest. He's friendlier when he's had a few drinks. Also, we spoke Italian for most of the night, so that might have relaxed him a little.”

Phichit grins, imagining what fiery, sullen Michele is like drunk. “What did you talk about?” he asks.

“You,” Chris says with a wink.

Someone less familiar with Chris's winks might think he's joking, but Phichit knows this one is genuine. He laughs and asks, “Me? Why?”

“He was curious if the rumors about you and Seung-gil are true.”

“Oh?” Phichit tilts his head, transforming his smile into something more innocent. “What did you tell him?”

“Well, I don't know, do I?” There’s no censure in his tone. Chris understands intimately how suddenly the urge for privacy can spring up, even from people as habitually open as the two of them.

“There's some truth to them,” Phichit says. He's not yet sure himself how much.

Chris chuckles and makes a bit of a show of stretching his long legs under the blankets. "I don't think I would have ever predicted the two of you, but when I discussed it with Michele last night, he brought up a lot of things the two of you share."

Phichit perks up. “ _Michele_ did? Really?” He wouldn't have been surprised if he heard that Michele never thought of him at all.

“He did. He said the two of you are at your most open on the ice.”

“Well, but isn't that true of most of us?” Phichit counters.

“He had a way of phrasing it,” Chris says, yawning. “Neither of you is afraid of being direct, either. We counted that as a mark on the positive side.”

Phichit cocks his head. “You were counting negatives, too?”

“Of course. That's what made it fun.” Chris's mouth is hidden by his pillow, but the way his eyes crinkle at the corners gives away the impish turn his lips have taken.

“And what was a negative?”

“Seung-gil's entire personality.”

Phichit bursts out laughing and feels a tiny bit of guilt, except that he suspects Seung-gil would be one of the first to agree that he isn't especially adept at navigating his personal relationships.

Chris segues into describing the story Michele struggled through intoxication to tell in sequential order last night, then Phichit wishes Chris luck on his competition, and they hang up.

There are two messages from Seung-gil waiting for Phichit when he switches apps. The first is a photo of Seung-gil's brand new yoga pants (with the tag still attached), and the other is the message: [Now I have four things.]

Phichit genuinely can't tell if he's joking. He writes as much alongside a laughing emoticon.

Seung-gil doesn’t give him a clear confirmation.

•

The day before the Internationaux de France, Phichit spends roughly three hours on the train from Paris to Grenoble texting Yuuri. It turns out Viktor's parents own a house in Lyon and Yuuri's been practicing in the outdoor skating rink nearby. Instagram has been going wild documenting Yuuri's time there, and Viktor's been taking advantage of the attention by drawing Yuuri into impromptu pair skates while tourists and residents of Lyon alike applaud from the outer edges of the ice.

[Are you on your way yet?] Phichit writes.

Viktor's father insisted on driving them to Grenoble, and Yuuri couldn't come up with enough ways to effectively dissuade him. Viktor, apparently, gleefully embraced the idea, so it was three against one.

[Yes, we just left. Viktor's mother is driving.]

[She can drive?]

[She can! I was surprised too. I didn't know they made cars for people in wheelchairs. The gas and breaks and everything are all hand-operated.]

[Cool! It's nice that your family can come support you.]

[Well, Viktor's family.]

[You're engaged! They're your family too!]

[Are you almost in Grenoble? You're taking the train, right?]

[Ha! That was a terrible transition, Yuuri.]

[Leave me alooooone.]

[Are you going to have dinner with VIKTOR’S family tonight or can we hang out?]

[I think we can hang out! Only...]

[Viktor can come!]

[...Thank you. >.<]

Phichit smiles, unsurprised when the pauses between responses get longer and longer. He imagines Viktor's parents drawing Yuuri into conversation, and Viktor claiming one of Yuuri's arms to snuggle with, impeding his typing.

Phichit switches over to Seung-gil's chat, even though he knows Seung-gil’s long since gone to sleep. He's more of a morning person than Phichit expected, like himself, and goes to bed far earlier than anyone else he knows.

He rereads their last few messages to each other.

[I watched a Thai soap opera,] Seung-gil had written.

[I'm so proud of you!!]

[I understand you better now.]

[...]

[All the...yeah.]

[All the what?!]

Seung-gil's next four messages were screencaps from a show Phichit recognized on sight. He chuckles now seeing them again.

Celestino leans over. “Hmm?”

Phichit shows him his screen.

“Ahh, that. You made him watch that?”

Phichit is immediately and deeply wounded, and tries to communicate this through hand gestures. “Ciao Ciao!” he cries. “Why would I have to _make_ him watch such a masterpiece?”

Celestino nods, utterly unconvinced, and as Phichit draws breath to defend the most majestic program on television at the moment, he looks at his watch. “Ah, look, time to be elsewhere.” He jumps up and makes his way down the aisle of the train, whistling brightly.

Phichit huffs and sends a message to Supatra. [Ciao Ciao maligned Our Show.]

She sends back a stamp of a horrified Daffy Duck. [THE NERVE.]

[RIGHT???]

When the train pulls into Grenoble, Phichit’s heart is light.

•

Dinner with Yuuri and Viktor is as much of an adventure as Phichit anticipated it would be. The two of them are already tipsy when he arrives at the restaurant, and Yuuri’s eyes sparkle when Phichit slides into the booth opposite them.

“PHICHIT-KUN,” he cheers. He seizes Phichit’s hand between both of his and then looks down at it like he’s forgotten what he was going to do with it.

“Hello,” Viktor says, beaming. It would look more natural if his head weren’t a dead weight on Yuuri’s shoulder.

The evening continues much in the same vein, with Phichit eagerly downing sugary drinks to catch up to them. Around ten, Yakov arrives and the universe blesses Phichit with the opportunity to get footage of Russia’s most revered skating coach shucking Viktor Nikiforov over his shoulder and stoically carrying him out of the restaurant.

Phichit only stops filming (and laughing) when Yakov turns and bellows, “KATSUKI!”

Phichit hurries to pick up his friend from the bench where he’d been doing some suspicious nuzzling in Viktor’s lap.

Phichit’s phone, clinging to life at 1% battery, once again shows its unconditional love for and undying loyalty to him by uploading his video post to Instagram before it dies.

•

By morning, Viktor’s a meme. Again.

[SERIOUSLY, PHICHIT-KUN??????]

[Sorry!]

He isn’t. Not even a little. As he walks to the venue, he even retweets a fan’s artistic portrayal of giggling merman Viktor slung over exasperated fisherman Yakov’s shoulder.

•

To keep his nerves settled, Phichit quickly branches off from the others and spends some time on his own. The bass of his short program music blares in his ears as he stretches, the familiar crescendo giving his spirits a boost. He reaches for his left foot and presses his chest deeper against his thigh as he exhales. The cord of his earphones tickles his arm, but he tries to ignore it as he holds the stretch. Emotional and physical sensation tangle as the song ends and starts again.

When he feels a toe touch his left butt cheek, Phichit sees three possible candidates in his head and says in Chinese, “Rude.”

Guang Hong crouches in front of him, grinning. He pulls Phichit’s earphones free and kindly repeats the word as it’s meant to be pronounced.

While Phichit wraps up his stretches, Guang Hong sits with him and plays with the sleeves of his team jacket. Cameramen linger in the hallway nearby, occasionally catching footage for their respective programs. Guang Hong and Phichit both wave and smile a few times.

“Yuuri’s late,” Guang Hong says, checking the time on his phone.

“He’s already here,” Phichit says. “I saw him passed out on a sofa.”

Guang Hong laughs. Right on cue, Yuuri plops down next to them, looking like raw death scraped over brick.

“Good morning,” Guang Hong says.

“Yes,” Yuuri says, sounding uncertain. Then, more uncertain, “What?”

Phichit giggles. “Where’s Viktor?” he asks.

Yuuri hides his face in his hands and groans long and loud. He lets loose a long string of Japanese, some of which are definitely curse words.

Guang Hong gives Phichit wide eyes paired with an incredulous smile, and Phichit grins back. Yuuri’s hangovers are adorable.

Viktor, it turns out, is propped up on the wall of the rink, yawning and fuzzy-eyed. When he sees Phichit on the ice, he offers a merry-if-slightly-sleepy wave, so Phichit coasts over to say hi.

“I heard your parents are here,” he says, once pleasantries and hangover sympathies are exchanged.

Viktor nods and turns, offering a more expansive wave into the stands. A few dozen spectators cheer and wave back, including the smiling woman holding a Japanese flag in a wheelchair who must be Viktor’s mother and the beaming man beside her wearing a katsudon T-shirt who must be Viktor’s father.

“That’s the cutest thing I’ve ever seen,” Phichit says, awed. He vehemently mourns the lack of phone-sized pockets in his costume.

When Yuuri stops next to Phichit, he rests his head on Phichit’s shoulder and groans, “I’m gonna puke. Again.”

Viktor makes a sympathetic noise in the back of his throat and reaches for him, but Yuuri gives him a petulant look.

“He didn’t puke,” Yuuri tells Phichit. “He never pukes.”

Phichit covers his mouth and pretends he’s not hiding laughter.

“Yuuri,” Viktor says, plaintive.

That’s apparently all it takes. Yuuri sighs and shifts from Phichit to Viktor, draping over the wall of the rink so Viktor can cling to him and rub his back.

Phichit leaves them to it, openly giggling.

•

He’s skating last, which suits him fine. He takes a seat in the stands next to Guang Hong and pops out his phone to address the deluge of notifications that’s been building up. Around four in the morning, Seung-gil sent him a photo of Sunja peering up at the camera, so Phichit sends back a sparkling row of hearts.

‘Read’ appears.

His gasp startles Guang Hong, so Phichit turns his phone screen off and pretends he’s just happy to see Georgi skating out to the center of the ice. He claps a little more enthusiastically as Guang Hong eyes him.

It’s six o’clock in the evening in Seoul, which means Seung-gil must be heading into his dance class. From what Seung-gil’s told him, they’re focusing on the choreography for his Olympics program. Phichit’s been tempted to ask for video, since he knows Seung-gil records his lessons to study later, but he hasn’t been able to work up the nerve. As things stand now, they’re precariously balanced on a wire between friendship and something more, and Phichit’s reluctant to shove them into new territory through a text message.

He’s still not sure what he’s going to do when they meet at the GPF.

Georgi’s music begins, and Phichit distantly recalls hearing it the night Supatra came over to watch the stream of Skate Canada with him. Google says he’s skating to Mahler’s Symphony No. 8, but the dramatic vocals are at uncharacteristic odds with Georgi’s understated performance.

Phichit’s phone vibrates in his hand, but he forces himself to focus on Georgi.

“Wow,” Guang Hong murmurs.

Phichit nods.

His jumps aren’t as daring as they were at Worlds, but the emotion in every twist of his body speaks of deep composure Phichit didn’t know he had in him.

He takes his final pose on one knee, head bowed.

When the crowd cheers, Georgi peeks up with a tentative smile, and Phichit hurries to make a tweet for him. He unlocks his screen with a rapid swipe of his thumb, barely catching Seung-gil’s name in the preview box, and opens Twitter.

[GEORGIIIII! ♡♡♡♡] He tacks on a gif from the majestic soap opera wasted on Celestino and Seung-gil, then posts the tweet.

Then he opens Seung-gil’s chat and smiles.

[You should try something like this someday.]

Phichit writes back, [You’re watching? Don’t you have your dance lesson?]

‘Read’.

Guang Hong lets out a loud, “ _Whoo!_ ” as the announcer reads off Georgi’s score.

99.57

As a good section of the audience chants Georgi’s name, Yakov claps Georgi on the back with a pleased smile and pretends not to notice when Georgi covers his face with both hands and cries.

[I didn’t go,] Seung-gil’s written.

Concern blocks out common sense and Phichit doesn’t even hide his screen as he writes back. [Why not?]

Guang Hong gasps. “You _are_ dating!” he shouts.

Phichit slaps his hand over Guang Hong’s mouth and makes an indignant noise.

Guang Hong giggles, shameless. When he doesn’t stop, Phichit gives up and leaves the stands, grumbling. Guang Hong doesn’t follow him, probably still incapacitated by his own amusement.

In the stairwell, he reads Seung-gil’s response. [Don’t be worried.]

Phichit rears back, his mind flying through questions. Why would Seung-gil think he’d be worried? Better—why _is_ he worried? What could have happened?

[Did something happen?] he writes instead.

‘Read’.

“Phichit-kun!”

Yuuri, standing in front of the monitors nearby, offers him a much clearer smile than he was capable of just half an hour ago. Phichit glances at his screen, but there’s no answer to his question. Reluctantly, Phichit turns off the screen and joins Yuuri.

While JJ skates, Yuuri tells Phichit the Tale of Viktor Nikiforov’s Mother and the Hangover Drink She Brought for Him Filled with Ingredients He Dares Not Name. Phichit’s in stitches by the time JJ receives his score, and then Viktor arrives to tug Yuuri away to the ice.

Phichit checks his phone again, but there’s still nothing. He writes, [Seung-gil!] and adds frightened emoji. [Just tell me you’re not hurt or in the hospital!]

Seung-gil promptly sends, [I’m not hurt or in the hospital.]

Phichit rolls his eyes. Figures Seung-gil would take his use of “just” literally.

[You can’t tell me anything else…?]

[No.]

Phichit gives up and slips his phone into his bag. If they keep writing, Seung-gil’s weird non-answers are bound to put Phichit in an even weirder head-space than he already is, so better to watch the rest of the programs and get his focus back before he has to skate.

On his way back to Guang Hong, Phichit searches the venue and spots Viktor at the rink wall, also much sharper-eyed than before. Higher up, Phichit spots Viktor’s parents in the stands and smiles as they each hold one end of their Japanese flag and wave it enthusiastically. For the first time, Phichit notices Yuuri’s sister and mother beside them, holding each other’s hands and beaming wide as Yuuri takes his pose.

Phichit sits, says, “Not a word,” to Guang Hong, and zeroes in on his best friend.

Guang Hong obliges.

Yuuri’s theme for the season is “confidence”, and it shows. His gold-winning performance at Worlds in spring confirmed that his silver at the GPF was only the beginning of what seems to be a meteoric rise from what was already a respectable place in his career.

Even desperately hungover, he manages not to fall or flub a single jump. Unfortunately, his stamina takes the brunt of the damage and he's forced to shorten two of his quads. He finishes with a grimace and doesn't seem to absorb Viktor calling some word of encouragement that Phichit can't hear.

Phichit stands and calls, “YUURI!” with his hands cupped over his mouth. Guang Hong joins him, and the two start up a chant of Yuuri’s name.

It doesn't seem to permeate, judging by Yuuri’s downcast eyes as he skates to the kiss and cry, but Phichit keeps it up anyway.

His eyes track back up to the Nikiforov-Katsuki party and his heart warms to see them even more enthusiastic now than they were before his skate. Yuuri’s sister and Viktor’s father seem to be energetically explaining things to Yuuri’s mother, who smiles and nods and doesn't seem to be following any of it. Her eyes are locked on her son, the tilt of her mouth breathlessly fond.

101.35

The stands burst into cheering, and Phichit joins in. As Viktor gives Yuuri a much gentler-than-usual hug in the kiss and cry and Yuuri absorbs his score with a blank frown, Phichit leaves the stands and finds Celestino, and time blurs ahead.

Even when his turn on the ice arrives, it doesn't slow.

Phichit finds himself at the center of the rink, the sound around him as thick as if he were underwater.

His theme for this season is “faith”. In himself, in his skill, in his parents, in his friends, in his future. He almost decided on “trust”, but he liked the ambiguity of faith. Not religious, but something secular and just as strong.

He wants anyone watching him to see a light. He wants them all to feel a swell of hope in the future. A musician he knows from YouTube composed his piece, and every succeeding note of it leads to a crescendo that reminds Phichit of the brightest moments in his life.

Those memories playing at the forefront of his mind make him jump lighter, land cleaner. Remind him of the people who helped him trust in a life full of happy endings.

When he finishes his program, he's smiling, and the audience is roaring.

He bows low, a laugh building in his chest. It's skates like that that drive home for him why he works so hard.

Celestino calls out, “Magnificent!” and claps with his hands held high.

Phichit grabs a husky from the ice and hugs it to his chest without hesitation, enjoying the audience’s laughter.

As he skates to the kiss and cry, he waves to the crowds. Thai flags ripple in all directions, the spectators holding them offering wide smiles and calls of encouragement.

“Excellent,” Celestino says, clapping his shoulder as he dons his skate guards. “Best I've seen from you yet.”

Phichit beams at him and throws himself onto the bench with a gush of an exhale. His body is still thrumming with adrenaline.

As they wait for Phichit’s score, Celestino pats him on the back and leans in close. Too quietly for the cameras to catch, he whispers, “What did he say to you before you started?”

Phichit wipes sweat from his neck. “Who?”

Rather than answer, Celestino lifts his chin meaningfully toward the stands.

Phichit’s heart squeezes, comprehension and disbelief warring as he turns wildly to follow his coach’s gaze.

There, leaning on the railing above the stands, is a familiar figure in a turtleneck holding a hamster plush.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hee~ Now things get fun. ♡


	4. Chapter 4

Of course, Seung-gil clearly didn’t plan on being spotted, because he vanishes at the first opportunity, which is the moment Phichit takes his eyes off him to see his score. The 110.29 goes a long way to softening the disappointment of trying to find Seung-gil in the cheering crowd and failing.

•

Sweaty, cold, and mired in an emotional miasma, Phichit stalks off to the locker room. Without a word to anyone, he swipes his phone and types in a rapid message to Seung-gil.

[We made eye contact! Show yourself!]

He waits for several interminable seconds, then punches out a sigh and shoves his phone back in his bag.

“Something wrong?” asks Noel from the bench behind him. When Phichit glances at him, he offers a sympathetic smile that brings Phichit’s shoulders down a little from his ears.

“I’m fine,” Phichit says, forcing levity into his voice. Unfortunately, he closes his locker with a _bang_ and wildly undercuts his attempt at a composed front.

Noel makes a very visible decision not to remark on it, then gives Phichit two thumbs up instead.

Phichit allows himself a sheepish smile before retreating to the showers. When he comes back, he retrieves his phone to go over his Twitter and Instagram feeds.

Across both platforms, there are numerous photos of Seung-gil loitering in random spots around the area throughout the day. One male Japanese fan even reported seeing Seung-gil hanging out near the sinks in the men’s bathroom, focused on his phone.

It’s pretty adorable that Seung-gil seems to genuinely believe he can hide from skating fans at a skating rink during an international skating competition.

A quick visit to his messaging app confirms Phichit’s suspicions that his message to Seung-gil has been Read and ignored.

The steady increase in volume around him doesn’t distract Phichit from his screen.

“So,” Guang Hong says, hair wet and mouth tucked into a puzzled moue, “you’re _not_ dating?”

Phichit answers him with a flat glance.

Guang Hong doesn’t seem able to translate. “You _are_?”

“They're not,” says Leo via Guang Hong’s phone.

“How do you know?” Guang Hong asks him.

“I don’t. I just don’t think he’d be this tense about Seung-gil showing up if they were already dating.”

“I remember the first time someone I loved came to watch me skate,” Georgi says with his eyes closed.

Emil sings something ballad-like in Czech and laughs by himself.

Seung-gil’s response appears, and Phichit tunes out everything else.

[I didn’t think you’d see me. Sorry.]

Phichit resists the urge to react outwardly, but he makes up for it with a long, exasperated sigh in his head.

[Don’t apologize!!!!! I want to see you!] He sends it before he can think through the implications. When the ‘Read’ appears, Phichit squeaks, his mind filling with the many possible conclusions Seung-gil might jump to about Phichit’s side of things.

Guang Hong zeroes in on him, his eyes sparkling and his mouth drawn into something quite manic. “What did he say? Leo, Leo, shh!”

Phichit stands up and, wrapped in a towel and still damp from his shower, flees the space with just about half his dignity still intact. He claims a relatively empty nook near the toilets and chews his lip while he waits for an answer. Something tells him Seung-gil has committed to this conversation.

Sure enough, Seung-gil’s response pops up seconds later. [I was just going to go to the States from here…] For his own competition. In New York. Next week. So he stopped on the way? Here, in Grenoble, France. From Seoul.

Phichit’s stomach turns over. There are a great many implications there. [Oh.]

‘Read’.

Nothing more.

After a moment of indecision, wondering if he should push for answers and ultimately deciding he won’t get any if he doesn’t ask, Phichit makes a frustrated noise and writes, [So you only came here to watch the SP? You’re not staying for the FS? Don’t you have a hotel? Or are you only here for a few hours? Skate America isn’t for another week!] He sends it with satisfaction.

‘Read’.

“Phichit!” Mũtugi, one of the French pair dancers, peers around a bank of lockers and grins at him. “Hey! I thought I saw you come back here. We’re going out. You’ll join us, yes?”

Phichit finds an easy smile for him and says, “Maybe! I’m kind of waiting on—”

“Ahh, right.” Mũtugi winks. “ _Understood_ , my friend. If you’re free, write me and I’ll send you the address, all right?”

There’s no point in denying what hasn’t been openly remarked upon, so Phichit just agrees, his face hot.

When Mũtugi rushes off, calling next for Emil, Phichit consults his phone again. Seung-gil can’t honestly expect to hide from him now, can he?

The lack of a response is the answer to that.

It’s been ninety minutes since he saw Seung-gil in the stands, and all Phichit has accomplished in the time since is a state of frazzled bewilderment.

•

He lingers in the locker room with Guang Hong for another fifteen minutes until his phone approaches the very real danger of dying. Seung-gil still hasn't written back to him and has almost definitely left the rink by now. If Phichit has learned anything at all about him, he’s probably either holed up in a hotel room somewhere or in a taxi on his way to the airport, so there’s no point in searching for him around here.

Seung-gil’s family is of the Mind-Bendingly Rich variety, so it won't surprise Phichit in the slightest if Seung-gil panicked and decided to cut and run after only watching one program. It _will_ annoy him, though.

Intent on retrieving his spare battery so he can try and coax Seung-gil into being more forthcoming with him, Phichit hurries back to the hotel. He perks up a little when he sees Ji-na in the lobby and latches onto her as soon as he’s in range. She’s his antithesis in some ways, as allergic to social media and messaging apps as Phichit is addicted to them. She once answered a text he sent her two years before with a casual, [omg i love that movie!!! let’s go see it when i’m in bangkok next month!!] and then [oh, oops, this is an old message isn’t it…ㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋ soooorrrryyyyy!]

Ji-na doesn't even pause her conversation with Mila. She just reaches up and pets the back of his head. He takes that to mean she knows Seung-gil is here and whines low in his chest to get her full sympathy.

At the sound, she cuts herself off mid-sentence and laughs. Mila reaches over to pat his head.

Phichit offers up a truly maligned pout. “Your rinkmate is a jerk,” he tells Ji-na.

She rolls her eyes toward the ceiling, a wry smile lifting one corner her mouth. “I thought you learned your lesson with Tae-woo,” she says, moving his scarf down to massage the back of his neck. “The men’s side have always been idiots.”

“Even Jung-oh?”

“He doesn’t count. We felt sorry for him and adopted him onto the women’s side ages ago.”

Mila wraps one arm around her chest, perches her elbow on her forearm, and rests her chin in her hand. She regards Phichit with fondness. “You’re really going to pursue this with him, aren’t you?” she asks.

Phichit leans on Ji-na’s shoulder, hugging her around the waist while she proceeds to pet his hair. “Maybe,” he says, sullen. “I shouldn’t, though. He’s a jerk.”

“You mentioned,” Mila says, grinning.

“He’s not a jerk,” Ji-na says. “He’s…socially illiterate. I’ve known him since we were eight and I still don’t understand how his mind works. I _do_ know he’s never dated, though, so this whole thing between you two has been really cute.”

“Let’s walk the poor dove to his room,” Mila says.

Phichit sniffles with utmost pathos until Ji-na giggles and ruffles his hair.

As the three of them start to cross the lobby, Phichit asks Ji-na, “Did you know he was coming here?”

She laughs. And keeps laughing. After a few seconds, she wipes an actual tear of mirth from her cheek. “Oh. Oh, wow. I’m so sorry. Just…Seung-gil doesn’t talk to any of us, Phichit. He hardly talks to his own coach; why would he talk to us? I was just as surprised as you to see him here.” As they board the elevator, she unlocks her phone and brings up a chat in Korean that Phichit can’t read. “Oh. According to Jung-oh, Seung-gil was in Seoul yesterday. Then he just suddenly didn’t show up for anything and left Min-so panicking.”

Mila snickers. “Sounds familiar.”

Ji-na gives her a wide grin. “Right? At least Seung-gil isn’t fifteen.”

Phichit leans on the elevator’s railing and watches the numbers tick upward. “So he’s here, but I don’t know where or how to find him, and no one else knows where he is or how to find him.”

“Oh, I know how to find him,” Ji-na says with a wink. “Tell me your room number.”

He does, frowning.

The elevator doors open and Ji-na walks out first, grinning with utter mischief as she taps out rapid lines of Hangul into a messaging app Phichit doesn't recognize. By the time they reach Phichit’s door, she pockets her phone and offers him a triumphant smile. “There. He’ll be here soon. He was hiding in his room, but he should—”

Down the hall, there’s a noise like a gunshot. All three of them jump. Phichit only has a moment to wonder if the source of that noise was Seung-gil before the man himself appears around the corner, only two doors away. His face could be generously described as murderous.

Ji-na says something bright and chipper to him in Korean.

Seung-gil responds with a single, vicious word, also in Korean.

Mila looks back and forth between them, then covers her mouth to muffle her laughter.

When Seung-gil’s eyes dart over to her, he also seems to realize Phichit’s with them. The instant their eyes meet, Seung-gil’s already pale face descends into near-translucence.

Ji-na gives Phichit’s scarf a gentle tug. “Well, he’s all yours. Bye, boys!” She and Mila set off toward the elevators with a brisk step, but Seung-gil doesn’t even seem to register their presence anymore.

Phichit’s heart warns for critical damage from all the wild pounding. He waits until the elevator doors have shut before he even attempts speech.

“I didn’t know she was going to do that,” he says. When that gets him nothing, he adds, “I don’t actually know what she told you, either.”

Seung-gil nods stiffly. His gaze drops to the floor, then over his shoulder, presumably in the direction of his hotel room.

Phichit licks his lips, rooted where he stands. The sight of Seung-gil shouldn’t have such a debilitating effect on him, not after the amount of time and emotion he’s already invested in their growing friendship. But when Phichit tries to wet his throat, it’s only through a miracle that he swallows down the right tube and doesn’t choke on his own spit in front of the guy he’s low-key crushing on.

He’s even more gorgeous at close range. It just isn’t right.

“So…” Phichit says, wildly grasping for something to say. “You’re staying for tomorrow, right?”

Seung-gil doesn’t seem to hear him, then startles and meets his eyes again. “What?”

Phichit folds his arms and says, “Tomorrow. You’ll watch?” A hint of lingering annoyance from earlier creeps in and he feels compelled to add, “Maybe from an actual seat this time?”

Seung-gil’s gaze travels again, and only the sharp breath he exhales gives any indication that he heard.

Even if Phichit had tried to imagine a more awkward meeting, this would probably have it beat. He’s ninety percent sure Seung-gil is here specifically to see him, and yet Seung-gil’s grimace gives the impression that even the thought of staying in this hallway a minute longer repulses him.

Phichit takes a step and notes the panic that registers in Seung-gil’s eyes. “Are you _afraid_ of me?” Phichit tries to keep his tone light, adding an incredulous smile to show how ridiculous it would be for him to inspire an emotion like that in anyone.

Seung-gil shakes his head, but he doesn’t seem sure about it.

All at once, Phichit recalls every single face-to-face interaction and spoken conversation they’ve ever had. Rinks, locker rooms, banquets, hallways, lobbies, swimming pools, airports. They were all somewhat like this, with Phichit dominating the talking and Seung-gil offering the bare minimum to prove he wasn’t asleep with his eyes open.

The difference now is that Phichit knows he’s capable of more. …In the right context.

“Look,” he says, calling up Seung-gil’s pained gaze. “Relax. Go back to your room. I have an idea.”

Seung-gil hesitates, but he gives in quickly. He says, “Okay,” and heads back (escapes) in the direction he sprinted from. He’s around the corner and out of sight before Phichit can so much as wave.

Phichit waits until he hears the sound of a door closing, then pulls out his phone.

His dead phone.

Oh. Right.

•

[Sorry for the delay. I had to recharge my phone.]

‘Read’.

[I thought talking like this might be easier. So, I’m sorry Ji-na did that. I wouldn’t have forced you to meet me. I hope you know that.]

‘Read’.

[I’m also sorry I bombarded you with questions at the rink.]

‘Read’.

[I was just excited to see you.]

‘Read’.

[If you’re upset with me, do you forgive me?]

‘Read’.

[Hang on, I heard a knock.]

•

Phichit opens the door and nearly swallows his tongue.

Seung-gil holds out the hamster plush, his head bowed in apparent mortification from what he’s doing.

Phichit resists the very real, very strident urge to hug him. He only manages to control himself by the smallest of increments.

The plush is about the size of a rugby ball, and Phichit recognizes it immediately from the orange splash on the right ear. Seung-gil has brought him Hamtaro, Phichit’s favorite character from childhood. Phichit can’t remember ever mentioning as much to Seung-gil, but he figures it would be a safe leap of logic for anyone to make considering his love of hamsters.

He takes the plush with both hands, careful to avoid Seung-gil’s fingers in case the touch is unwanted.

“Thank you,” Phichit says.

Seung-gil nods once and drops his arms to his sides, eyes locked on the door frame next to Phichit’s left hip.

Phichit holds the plush against his chest, rests his chin on top, and waits.

Seung-gil seems to appreciate the silence. He closes his eyes and breathes in, then opens them as he exhales. With obvious effort, he meets Phichit’s eyes and says, “Congratulations. I’m not afraid of you.”

He says both things together, but they’re such dissonant remarks, it takes a moment for Phichit to realize he intends them to be separate. A slow grin curves his lips. “Thank you. And…good?”

Seung-gil nods. Then, abruptly, “What does ‘bombard’ mean?”

Phichit lets out a laugh, hidden in the soft fluff of Hamtaro’s head.

Seung-gil’s twitch of a smile is almost nonexistent unless one is watching for it.

Phichit is.

“I was gonna order room service,” he says, leaning back into his room a tiny bit to suggest an invitation before he actually says the words.

Seung-gil nods, his expression grave again.

“Wanna join me?”

•

Phichit takes a seat on the bed, so Seung-gil seems to immediately veto that area. He chooses the armchair instead, perching his elbows on the arms and his chin on the top of his fists. There’s a remote possibility that he could look even less comfortable, Phichit muses, but only if he started squirming.

He gives Hamtaro a place of honor on one of the bedside tables and secretly measures him against the size of a medal. It might look a little disproportionate, but that'll just make the whole effect cuter. Potential hashtags waltz through his mind.

After eight seconds of stale silence, Phichit wonders what made Seung-gil decide to come back and try again. He doesn’t seem inclined to speak, and Phichit is pretty sure he would gladly run for the door at the slightest provocation. It’s difficult to believe that this is the same person he talks to every day. Phichit almost asks if Seung-gil pays someone to transcribe his messages, but it sounds too harsh even in his own head.

Seung-gil studies the wall for another three seconds, then says, “You said you wanted room service.”

Phichit says, “Oh, right,” and kind of wants to run away himself as he clambers off the bed for the menu.

Compared to everything else so far, the process of ordering goes surprisingly smoothly. Seung-gil chooses the same grilled salmon Phichit wants, and Phichit handles the call down to the room service staff. It’s a task accomplished well within two minutes, and the promise of food seems to ease some of the tension between them, at least enough that Seung-gil changes position slightly. He leans forward with his elbows on his thighs, chin still propped on his fists. Phichit wonders absently if it’s an instinctive defense thing.

“When did you get here?” Phichit asks, pulling up a pillow to hug as he sits against the headboard.

“This morning,” Seung-gil says. He manages to hold eye contact throughout his answer, then drops his gaze.

Phichit can’t help but smile. “I’ve never seen you like this,” he hears himself say.

Seung-gil’s eyes snap back up, a frown tugging his eyebrows down. “Like what?”

“You’re not usually this tense around me,” Phichit says.

“I’m not tense,” Seung-gil says. “Yes I am.”

Phichit frowns back. “Wait, what?”

For a long moment, Seung-gil doesn’t seem to understand the source of the confusion, then his face actually reddens a little. “I’m not tense. I’m uncomfortable,” he clarifies. “I’m always that way with you.”

Phichit’s eyes widen. “Wow. That was…mean.”

He’s only half serious, but Seung-gil doesn’t seem to sense the light-hearted half. He exhales in one sharp burst and fixes his gaze on the floor, his expression pinched. “I’m sorry,” he grits out.

Phichit pushes down his automatic urge to placate and studies him instead. With all the patience he can muster, Phichit reminds himself that regardless of how this is going, the guy before him and the guy he writes to every day are the same person. Phichit takes a few focused seconds to shift his expectations for the afternoon, then climbs off the bed. Seung-gil’s gaze lifts and tracks him as Phichit drags the desk chair in front of him and straddles the back.

When he’s sure Seung-gil will maintain eye contact, Phichit tells him, “I was really nervous about seeing you in person.”

It’s obviously not one of the things Seung-gil was expecting him to say.

Phichit can’t help the warm and wry smile that brings out of him. “Actually,” he continues with a breath of laughter, “to be honest, I’ve been really nervous for most of the time we’ve been talking. I’m always excited when I get your messages, but yeah. I’m nervous a lot, too.”

Seung-gil doesn’t even seem to be breathing. Only the occasional blink tells Phichit he might be listening, but he’s staying quiet, so Phichit continues before he can lose steam.

“I know we’ve never really spent much time together in person, but I, ah, I really like you.” Seung-gil isn’t giving him any indicators at all, welcoming or otherwise, but Phichit forces himself press on and conclude, “And I think you like me. So…so yes. So…I want to ask you out.”

Once the words are said and enough time has passed that he can’t easily take them back, Phichit’s stomach clenches with a new level of fear. Saying it wasn't so bad; it's waiting for a response that puts his heart rate in jeopardy. He tries to keep his expression neutral even though he knows he’s failing, gripping his left thumb with his right hand in some inane attempt at self-comfort.

It’s almost shocking, then, that Seung-gil doesn’t seem to realize the amount of power he’s been handed. His eyes search Phichit’s face. There’s no hint of emotion anywhere on his own. No matter how closely Phichit looks at him, Seung-gil might as well be thinking about skate guard manufacturing for all that Phichit can read his expression.

The room suddenly feels tight and cold.

Then Seung-gil says, “Oh.”

That’s all.

Phichit loses a gust of breath, almost laughing as his rigid posture melts under his embarrassment. He buries his face in his forearms, folded on the back of his chair, and moans. “Seung-gil,” he says, strained, “do you even know what I’m asking?”

“Yes.”

Phichit lifts his head, astonished by the swiftness of the answer.

After a long moment of Phichit practically brimming with hope, Seung-gil tilts his head. “What?” he prompts.

Phichit calls upon every scrap of patience and understanding left in him. His face is burning and his long-dormant shyness is staging an obnoxious attempt at a coup, but Phichit steels himself against what he’s feeling so he can see this excruciating moment through to the end. “You know?” he prompts back.

Seung-gil nods, slowly, as if he’s confused where they’ve missed each other. “You want to date,” he says.

Phichit’s eyes widen until he’s sure they’re going to fall out.

Seung-gil seems to retreat a bit. “I’m wrong?” he asks. He sounds so young. So horribly, adorably young.

Phichit exhales a laugh and covers his face with his hands.

He’s too cute. To a lethal degree.

When he’s composed himself and deems himself ready to reenter the conversation, Phichit drops his hands and smiles. Seung-gil peers up at him through his bangs, wary and lost.

“Yeah,” Phichit tells him. “I want to date you.”

Seung-gil nods again, but his face is still set in uncertainty and tension keeps his shoulders drawn tightly in. “Okay,” he says.

Phichit rests his chin on his forearms as adrenaline surges through him. “Yeah?” he prompts, grinning.

“What’s ‘yeah’? Why?” Seung-gil asks, confounded.

Phichit laughs and would probably continue teasing him for far longer, but his dastardly plans are interrupted by another knock at the door. Bright with new energy, Phichit springs out of his chair and hurries to the door. The hotel staff woman (Amandine, her name tag reports) greets him cheerfully and wheels in a cart. Pretending Seung-gil isn’t staring at him with abject mystification, Phichit asks Amandine to set the plates together on the desk. He signs his name on the receipt, thanks her for the delivery, and waves as Amandine smiles and takes her leave.

When he turns around, Seung-gil’s already taken the protective plastic lids off both plates and stacked them neatly off to the side. His hands, Phichit notes with wild affection, are shaking.

Phichit watches him from the center of the room, taking him in with a significantly more relaxed gaze.

Seung-gil would grab his eye no matter where they were. His cut cheekbones, his glorious eyelashes, his soft, soft hair, always untouched by product of any kind. Just the fleeting thought that dating Seung-gil might mean a chance to sift his fingers through that hair gives Phichit a rush so intense he misses a breath.

He follows the line of Seung-gil's body from the elegant slope of his shoulders framed by his black turtleneck to the yoga pants he’s got on. ...The same pair he photographed recently to prove the reality of his increasing wardrobe. He was proud to show them off; Phichit is sure of it now.

Phichit tells himself firmly not to hug him. Not yet. In fact—

“You didn’t really answer me,” he says.

Seung-gil glances away from their lunch to look at him, his expression completely open while he translates in his head. A moment later, he casts his eyes to the side and his face clouds with confusion.

Phichit folds his arms and rocks back a little on his heels. He’s abruptly aware of his own clothes and how tightly they fit to his body. “Do you want to date me, Seung-gil?” he asks. He foresees a lot of blunt questions in their future.

_Their future._

To Phichit's surprise, Seung-gil hesitates. He leans his hip on the desk, splaying a hand out on the surface between their plates and peering closely at his fingers. He opens his mouth around a croaked sound, then clears his throat and says, “Yeah,” quietly.

Phichit takes a small breath, nearly knocked down by the sensation in his chest. “Oh,” he says. Despite the many ways he’s imagined this moment playing out, it’s still a shock. Every single one of his emotions seems to flee his body for a moment of suspended animation, then all of them ricochet back at once and slam into him. " _Oh_."

Seung-gil’s mouth twitches in the same tiny smile as before, but it lingers this time. “‘Oh’?”

Phichit lets out a shaky laugh. “Yeah. ‘Oh’. Why? What would you say?”

Seung-gil considers. “‘Thank you’?”

Phichit dissolves into giggling, slapping a hand over his mouth to muffle it when the volume makes Seung-gil jump.

So _irresponsibly_ cute.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So! I'm having enormous fun with this and writing has been going very well! I've already started on the next chapter, so to make up for the sudden "WHAT" ending last week, I decided to post this chapter a little early. \:D/ Thank you so much for all your comments. I can't explain how elated I get every time a new one arrives, so thank you so, so much!
> 
> I have changed the expected final chapter to a terrifying "?"! Looking over everything I have planned, this definitely won't be wrapped up in another 10k. Sincere apologies for the misleading chapter count until now! I had the purest and simplest of intentions with this fic and instead I've turned a tugboat into a cruise ship. So rather than attempt another guess, I'll just leave it at ? like I should have from the start.
> 
> See you all next week, back on Sunday as usual! ♡


	5. Chapter 5

In the twenty minutes that follow—arguably the first twenty minutes of their relationship—neither of them speaks.

Phichit doesn’t quite have a word to describe it, but Seung-gil seems to sink under the weight of something like shyness. His first attempt at eye contact with Phichit ends after roughly two seconds, and then he retreats to the armchair by the window carrying one of the salmon plates. By all visual evidence, he’s disinclined to do much more than lift his fork between the fish and his mouth.

Phichit considers his options. He knows down to the very core of himself that Seung-gil won’t react well to Phichit backing him up against the wall or pulling him onto the bed. Anything physical is probably off limits, and it’s equally clear he’s not interested in talking. Thoroughly out of ideas, Phichit takes a seat at the top of the bed with his own plate, distant enough to give Seung-gil space but close enough to invite conversation when or if he’s ready.

They pick at their food with varying degrees of commitment and neither of them says a word.

With Tae-woo, reading the atmosphere never took much effort. Even at the most awkward points of their time together, Tae-woo always fluently telegraphed what he wanted or needed, and that gave Phichit a clear road back to their comfort level. Seung-gil’s current expression treads the line between relaxed and bored, and it communicates exactly nothing.

Phichit chews at his bottom lip for the first time in two years and unlocks his phone for a way to escape the thick, expectant air between them.

When Seung-gil’s phone lights up some time later, it’s a relief. Phichit offers a rueful smile that goes unseen, and Seung-gil sighs through his nose before bringing the phone up to his ear. He answers in curt Korean, eyes aimed at the floor. His coach on the other end yells something so shrill it makes Seung-gil’s nose scrunch, then Seung-gil responds in a tone that somehow comes across as both impatient and apathetic.

Phichit hides a fraction of his smile behind his fork. He feels a flash of sympathy for Min-so, as well as the first stirrings of kinship.

To probably no one’s surprise, the conversation is quick and—judging by the sudden end to the shouting on Min-so’s end—incomplete.

Seung-gil puts his phone to the side, sighs again, and keeps eating.

Phichit thinks, _…Really?_ and guesses, “Did she tell you to come back to Seoul?”

Seung-gil makes an uninterested sound. “Yeah,” he says.

His phone lights up again with aggressive timing. Phichit expects Seung-gil to ignore it, but he picks up immediately. “No,” he tells the screen in English, then hangs up and tosses the phone onto the bed near Phichit’s feet.

Phichit’s mouth falls open.

“What?” Seung-gil’s voice sounds small and defensive. “This is normal.”

Phichit laughs outright. Of course it is. “You really didn’t tell anyone you were coming here?” he asks.

Seung-gil breaks eye contact and locks his gaze on the point where his crossed legs meet. “I don’t have to,” he says. “Sunja is with my brother.”

It takes a moment for Phichit to realize that he’s trying to address two points at once again. Even with Seung-gil’s tendency toward blunt delivery, the way he speaks and the way he writes are at such odds, it’s difficult to keep up with him.

“Yeah, I didn’t think you’d leave Sunja on her own,” Phichit says. “But your coach—”

“She doesn’t understand,” Seung-gil interrupts. From the frustration that clouds his face, it wasn’t something he planned on saying aloud.

“Doesn’t understand what?” Phichit prompts.

Seung-gil takes in a breath and then shakes his head. “Nothing.” He picks up his fork and, noticing he has nothing but salmon skin left on his plate, settles for twirling the oily ribbon like a strand of fettuccine.

Phichit shoves down the consecutive urges to groan and suggest _again_ that they attempt this conversation through texting. He needs Seung-gil to feel comfortable with him, and he’s not going to get that if he gives Seung-gil the idea that he doesn’t want to talk to him face to face.

He sends a silent wave of gratitude into the universe for sending him Katsuki Yuuri at such a young age. Without that level of conversational endurance training, he might’ve already called this a lost cause.

He creates and tosses several rough drafts in his head, then decides on, “What did Ji-na send you that made you freak out?”

Seung-gil’s expression flashes with panic, then shuts down. “Nothing,” he says.

Phichit nods, casual, then bends his head to send Ji-na a message.

Seung-gil, of course, isn’t stupid. “Phichit…”

“Mm?”

Seung-gil puts his plate to the side with deliberate intent, which is a good indication that Phichit ought to put some more distance between them. He grins and moves to the side of the bed, watching ‘Read’ pop up under his message. Seung-gil reaches the bed in three strides and makes a swipe for Phichit’s phone, but Phichit is already rolling off the bed. When Seung-gil grimaces at him, Phichit winks in return and sprints for the bathroom.

As he locks the door and hops onto the bathroom counter, Ji-na sends him the screencap of her chat with Seung-gil. The rows of Hangul are pretty but mean nothing to him.

Seung-gil actually kicks the door. “ _Phichit_.”

“Yes?” Phichit calls back, sweet as honey.

Seung-gil clearly doesn’t have an answer for that. He settles for another kick.

“Seung-gil!” Phichit laughs. “You’ll break the door!”

Seung-gil’s annoyed huff expresses exactly how much of a fuck he gives.

Ji-na’s next message is an English explanation of her conversation with Seung-gil.

[ok so basically i asked if he was here. he said no. (liar!!!!!) i said yes you are and if you don’t come to this room number in the next 5 minutes i’m going to tell phichit you’re learning thai for him. ㅋㅋㅋ]

Phichit gasps. As he rereads her message, it registers for him that it’s gone deathly quiet on the other side of the door.

He dashes off a quick [!!!!!!!] to Ji-na, then pockets his phone with such haste he nearly drops it. He’s right to hurry, though, because when he opens the bathroom door he catches Seung-gil with his hand on the room’s door handle.

Phichit goes for broke and blurts in Thai, “Is it true?”

The twitch in Seung-gil’s shoulders is answer enough, and Phichit’s most emphatic smile breaks free. He manages to remain calm long enough to turn on his heel, cross the room to the bedside table, gather Hamtaro into his arms, and then bury his face in the hamster’s stomach for a brief, 1000% necessary shriek. It would be humiliating if it didn’t immediately help his emotions settle, but as he lowers Hamtaro, he’s halfway convinced that Seung-gil will be out the door.

On the contrary, Seung-gil’s actually moved closer. He’s taken up a spot against the desk, arms folded as he peers up at Phichit through his hair with the very vaguest hint of a smile on his lips.

Phichit drops onto the bed hard, hazy with emotion. When he attempts a smile in return, it ends up on the side of wild and euphoric. “How long?” he asks in Thai. He lifts a hand from Hamtaro to show a series of fingers in case Seung-gil isn’t familiar with the question yet.

Seung-gil takes a beat to translate, then his height seems to shrink by several centimeters. He holds up a single finger and then a slightly bent second finger, presumably to signify half.

“A month and a half?” Phichit guesses, switching back to English.

Seung-gil nods. The crests of his cheeks have reddened.

Phichit has no idea what his own face looks like right now, but it makes Seung-gil duck his head and smile a little more.

•

It’s clear that Seung-gil doesn’t want to leave despite his difficulty with conversation, so Phichit shows him some mercy and suggests they watch a movie on his tablet. He’s guessing Seung-gil’s spoken about as much to Phichit in the last hour as he has to Min-so over the course of the season.

After giving Phichit a hesitant glance, Seung-gil finally takes a seat on the bed and assumes an odd kind of rigid relaxation.

Phichit sets the tablet on the bed between them and uses Seung-gil’s dismissive noises as a guide while he scrolls through his list of downloaded movies. To Phichit’s surprise, Seung-gil passes on The King and the Skater, but makes a curious noise for its sequel.

“Really?” Phichit presses. He sends Seung-gil a skeptical frown over his shoulder.

Seung-gil’s face tells him nothing, and the noise he makes is equally unintelligible.

“Well, okay.” Phichit starts the movie and settles back against his collection of pillows with Hamtaro snuggled in his arms.

Last month, Seung-gil told him he’d watched The King and the Skater, but only commented on the skating aspects of the film. “Not bad,” and, “sometimes realistic,” were among the highest compliments he’d offered. Phichit told him a few production stories, and Seung-gil even watched the interview Phichit sent him with the film’s choreographer, but Phichit had sensed Seung-gil’s interest waning before long, so he switched topics and never brought it up again.

He glances askance at Seung-gil as the opening score fills the room. Out of loyalty to the film, Phichit decides on a diplomatic, “This was a…controversial sequel. How about we watch the first ten minutes and then you can decide if you want to see it all?”

Seung-gil keeps his eyes fixed on the screen. He only gives a small “mm” of acknowledgment.

Phichit’s feelings for the sequel don’t compare in the slightest to his love for the first film, but he _is_ fond of it despite its problems. The production suffered a number of setbacks and changes at the helm that led to delays and unusual shifts of tone in the script, but Phichit’s favorite character has always been the king, and watching Arthur introduce him to the present day never gets old.

Arthur is stammering and helping the king out of Jubilee Fountain in Manchester when Phichit realizes they’re getting close to the fifteen-minute mark. He turns, already thinking through the titles of the other movies he has, only to find Seung-gil sitting with his arms around his legs and his knees under his chin, intent on the movie.

Phichit hides his smile behind Hamtaro’s head and shifts his attention back to the movie before Seung-gil can realize he’s staring.

•

Seung-gil stays for two more hours. The King and the Skater II gets a flattering review (“better skating in this one”) and while Seung-gil is using the bathroom, Phichit turns on Candlewax, a recent indie movie starring the actor who played Arthur. Seung-gil only makes it through half of that before he checks his phone and says, “I’m gonna go.”

Phichit stifles the disappointment that spikes through him and nods. “Okay.” While he leans forward to pause the movie, Seung-gil pushes off the bed and stretches. The hem of his turtleneck lifts just enough that Phichit spots a flash of faint muscle low on his pale stomach.

Phichit tamps down hard on the urge to tell him he can stay longer.

If they really are dating now, as Phichit assumes they are, their physical boundaries must be different now, right?

He walks a little behind Seung-gil all the way to the door, drafting and editing how to ask or imply or suggest a kiss. He suspects a simple, blunt question will get him a direct answer in return, but the thought of Seung-gil reacting with anything negative turns his stomach.

Seung-gil is already halfway out the door when Phichit stops him with a curious noise. Seung-gil faces Phichit, fully in the hallway, and says, “I’ll watch you skate tomorrow.”

Phichit blinks. He’d long since assumed that was a given, but Seung-gil’s tone gives the impression that this is a decision made only within the past thirty seconds.

“Okay,” he says, drawing the word out to stall so he can think.

Seung-gil nods once. “See you,” he says, and leaves.

Phichit can’t muster the nerve to call him back. He’s reached the bottom of the barrel for the day, his patience and understanding whittled to splinters. He watches Seung-gil walk down the hallway and around the corner, never a hesitation in his stride or a glance behind him. When he hears Seung-gil’s door open and shut, Phichit finally steps back and allows his own to close.

The emptiness and silence surrounding him as he makes his way back to the bed only serves as a sharp contrast to the warmth and comfort that filled the space only minutes ago. Still, it’s with the tiniest huff of relief that Phichit lies on his stomach and retrieves his phone. He switches his notifications back on and addresses the deluge waiting for him.

A good number of messages are from friends asking him where he is and what his plans are. Celestino’s bear similar questions. Guang Hong is a menace with gifs, full stop, and Leo once again advises Phichit to ignore him. Ji-na’s sent a barrage of questions with an increasing number of question marks and exclamation points, Mila wants to know if they’re already having sex, and Sara demands the full story from him because Mila is claiming Phichit swore her to secrecy.

That’s about ten percent of it, and Phichit spends fifteen minutes sending back answers. When he’s finished and facing the other ninety percent (not to mention Twitter, Snapchat, and Instagram), Phichit puts his phone aside and returns to the movie on his tablet instead.

When it’s finished, he picks up his phone and spots Seung-gil’s name in the newest batch of messages. He slides his finger across the notification bar, his smile sleepy.

[Which black sweater should I wear tomorrow?]

[The black one.]

[That’s a good idea. Thank you.]

Phichit rolls onto his stomach and tucks his manic smile into the pillow. Dork. He’s a dork, and so is the boy he wants in his arms.

•

He leaves his phone in his bag all morning and then stashes his bag in a locker at the first opportunity he gets. If he has his phone, he reasons, he’ll ask Seung-gil where he’s sitting, and then if (or more likely _when_ ) Seung-gil doesn’t tell him, he’ll search Instagram for the answer, and once he finds the answer, he’ll be even more distracted than he already is.

During warmup laps, he tries to block out the wild cheering from the audience as Yuuri lands a second quad. Viktor claps nearby and shouts something effusive in Russian.

Phichit passes Yuuri without a word, keeping his gaze vague and trained on nothing. He goes for a lutz, but his blade doesn’t align the way he wants it to and he hits the surface to blossoming pain in his shoulder. Several in the audience call his name as he picks himself up, so Phichit offers them a sheepish smile and pushes back into a smooth glide.

He projects as much casual confidence as he can find in himself until he’s off the ice and free to try and collect himself.

He’s watching Georgi from the stairwell, mostly out of view, when Celestino finds him and tugs on his sleeve. Phichit follows him, a little listless, back into the organized chaos of the world behind the scenes. He jumps when Celestino claps him on the shoulder and leans in to ask, “What’s on your mind?”

They navigate around a tangle of skaters hanging out by the monitors and Phichit hesitates. He considers fibbing, but he’s honest to his core, and he can’t help but give an honest answer.

“Him.”

Celestino can’t hide his smile behind his other hand fast enough, and his grip on Phichit’s shoulder relaxes. “Ah,” he says, clearly unconcerned.

Phichit gives him a disgruntled noise and shrugs his arm off entirely. “Ciao Ciao,” he says, aiming for stern, “it’s not funny.”

Celestino nods, very clearly holding in laughter. “It’s not, no, of course,” he says. “But it _is_ cute.”

Phichit decides not to reward him with a reaction beyond the involuntary pout he can’t do anything to stop.

“Am I allowed to ask if you have a boyfriend now?” Celestino wonders, smirking.

Phichit ramps his pout up to a sulk. “No!”

Celestino chuckles and leads him out through the curtain.

•

Watching his free skate later, it’s a miracle that he placed at all, let alone with silver.

Phichit searches for the Japanese broadcast, since it’s likely to be the one with the least amount of commentary, but even with the small amount of criticism there is in a language he can’t understand, there’s no escaping how sloppy he looks. He burrows deeper into his team jacket and groans when his newly-perfected quad toe loop becomes a wobbly triple.

Mila’s arm circles around his back and her head touches down on his shoulder. “Don’t torture yourself, sweetheart,” she tells him. “You had a lot on your mind.”

Phichit of the past touches down on the ice and Phichit of the present makes another inconsolable noise.

Mila presses a noisy kiss to his cheek. “Put the phone down,” she advises. “Your boy is looking for you.”

Phichit almost does one further and drops it. “He is?” he squawks.

She hums and lifts her chin. “Over there,” she says, pitching her voice low. “With Ji-na.”

And maybe Phichit misunderstands what the word “with” means in English, because what he sees when he finds Ji-na and Seung-gil in the crowded room is not what he expects. The two of them aren’t really in each other’s company the way “with” would imply—they aren’t even looking at each other. Instead, Seung-gil is very obviously trying to avoid being seen, despite wearing his South Korea team jacket, and Ji-na is making slightly less of a production of both following him and laughing at him behind her hands.

When Seung-gil meets Phichit’s eyes, Phichit’s amusement changes to sympathy. He tells Mila quickly, “I have to go,” and pockets his phone in his own jacket.

She releases him and sends him off with a cheerful, “There’re some empty rooms down the hallway!”

Phichit logs that away and weaves through the mess of pair skaters, managers, security, coaches, press, and figure skaters until he’s managed to grab onto Seung-gil’s sleeve.

“Come with me,” he says, adrenaline ratcheting.

Seung-gil nods once, relief transforming his face.

Ji-na, waylaid by the hug of a German speed skater she must know, grins at him and points down the hallway Mila referenced. Phichit beams back at her and sets off with Seung-gil in tow.

By a wild stroke of luck, they aren't stopped. Their one detour is a woman carrying a massive camera on her shoulder, but she only offers them a polite nod and moves to the side to give them more space to pass. None of the rooms are numbered, so Phichit chooses one at random and, confirming the lack of occupants, tugs Seung-gil inside and shuts the door behind them. Once he switches on the florescent lights, Phichit takes in the projector screen at the far end, the stack of chairs in the corner, and the three long tables pushed against the wall, and decides this probably isn’t a room anyone else will need today. He locks the door without guilt and turns to face Seung-gil—

—Who is occupying himself with the sleeves of his jacket, pulling them over his hands and studying the lengths with rapt interest.

Phichit grabs the end of one and smiles when Seung-gil peeks up at him.

“Were you escaping someone?” Phichit teases.

Seung-gil nods. “A…fan sat next to me,” he says. “I didn’t see the second half of your program.”

Phichit notes the small signs of stress in Seung-gil’s posture and squeezes Seung-gil’s sleeve, wondering how close to Seung-gil's fingers he is. “I wasn’t really there for it either,” he says.

Seung-gil tilts his head.

“Got stuck in my head,” Phichit clarifies. He gives Seung-gil’s sleeve one more affectionate tug before he retrieves his phone and cues up the video to the halfway point.

Seung-gil moves just behind his shoulder. His voice is quieter than usual when he murmurs, “From the beginning?”

Smiling, Phichit slides the bar back to the start and pretends he isn’t imagining what it would feel like to lean against his chest.

The doorknob rattles, followed by a sharp knock and something in French. Seung-gil steps back, startled, as Phichit rushes to unlock the door. A staff woman nods at him, says, “Excuse us,” in harried English, and leads four officials with press badges inside.

Phichit and Seung-gil take that both as their invitation to leave and an indicator that they won’t be finding any privacy here at the rink. Phichit takes in Seung-gil’s crowded, hunted posture and leans close to him. “Let me get my things and I’ll meet you in the hotel,” he says in an undertone.

Seung-gil gives him a grateful nod. He lingers for a second, his bottom lip pulled slightly between his teeth, then sighs and threads off through the crowd toward the exit.

Phichit’s tempted to follow him, but he decides to hold his curiosity until they’re alone. Besides, he sort of wants his medal.

Hamtaro awaits his photoshoot.

•

Naturally, retrieving his things from the locker room takes almost double the amount of time Phichit expects to. First, Mũtugi and his pair skating partner Julien catch him at the door and pin him with questions.

“Why didn’t you bring him out last night?” Mũtugi asks, put out.

Julien closes a fist over the embroidered silver frost on his chest, his eyes soft with emotion. “Did he really come here just for you?”

Mũtugi frowns and snaps rapidly, clearly dismissing his partner’s question. “This means you are dating him, yes, Phichit?” he presses.

Julien clicks his tongue and gives Mũtugi a sarcastic look. “Do _you_ fly to another country to see a man you are not interested in?”

Mũtugi holds his chin high with pride. “ _I_ am not the one who makes those trips,” he says loftily.

They fall into a rapid-fire debate in French, and Phichit takes the opportunity to duck out of his interrogation. Of course, that’s when Guang Hong descends on him, fully dressed in jeans, a scarf, and the hideous Christmas sweater he posted about on Instagram earlier (an early gift from Leo). “Phichit!” He latches onto Phichit’s arm and shakes it with petulance.

Phichit rolls his eyes fondly and drags his new luggage over to his locker, using his free hand to spin the combination of his padlock.

"You ignored my messages!" Guang Hong accuses.

"I did," Phichit confirms, cheerful.

"Hey!"

“The lover returns!” Emil crows, arms spread in victorious acclaim.

Guang Hong laughs—a lot—but at least he lets go of Phichit’s arm.

“Where’s Yuuri?” Phichit asks the room at large.

“He left with Nikiforov already,” Noel calls from the showers.

“Thank you!” Phichit calls back.

Guang Hong draws breath at the same moment Georgi rounds the locker bank in a towel and clears his throat. After that, Guang Hong seems to try and contain himself.

Ultimately, it takes Phichit roughly fifteen minutes to get out of the locker room with his bag, and then he’s set upon by a band of French reporters, Ji-na, Celestino, reporters from the U.S. and Canada, a Japanese journalist with an antique-looking tape recorder and a translator, Yakov looking for Georgi, and a staff person who mistakes him for someone else.

He texts Seung-gil as soon as the hotel’s elevator doors close, exhaling a full breath for what feels like the first time in hours.

[Should I go to your room or you come to mine?]

Phichit indulges in a wild fantasy of making out with him once they’re alone, but given the pace things have been moving at so far, it’s a little too outlandish to take seriously.

[Would you come to mine please?]

The ‘please’ draws concern, but Phichit decides to shelve it until he can ask in person. Seung-gil sends his room number and asks him when he arrives to knock on the door three times.

Phichit entertains the idea of asking Yuuri if his relationship with Viktor started anything like this, until he remembers that no couple in the world started their relationship the same way and as many times as Yuuri and Viktor did.

He knocks on Seung-gil’s door before he has time to remember all the reasons he has to feel nervous. He doesn’t even hear Seung-gil approach—one moment the door is closed, the next it’s open and Seung-gil has seized his arm and yanked him inside. The door almost shuts on Phichit’s bag, but Seung-gil doesn’t seem to notice.

When Phichit’s surprise fades, he offers a tentative, “What’s wrong?” He leaves off the _with you_ he almost included.

Seung-gil breathes in and exhales with his eyes closed. “Nothing. Something. Come here.” He walks deeper into his hotel room, and Phichit notes with confusion that the lights are all off. Only the streetlights outside lend the room the slightest amount of ambiance.

“Were you sleeping?” Phichit asks, letting a note of amusement into his question.

Seung-gil drops onto the bed and folds over, resting his face in his hands. Phichit sits next to him cautiously.

“Seung-gil?”

“Sorry,” he murmurs, his voice rough. “I want…please, one minute.”

Phichit nods and sits on his hands, resisting the pull toward his phone to fill the time and to remove the nearly overpowering temptation to touch him. He’s never seen Seung-gil this open or vulnerable, and the amount of trust it suggests is staggering.

Seung-gil eventually swallows and sits up, but his face is still more drawn and exhausted than Phichit would like.

Phichit goes with his first instinct and asks, “Can I touch you?”

Seung-gil doesn’t answer for a long moment, then he seems to register the question and lifts his eyes to Phichit’s. He nods once, slow and deliberate and never breaking eye contact. Phichit quirks his lips in a small smile and stretches his arm out and around Seung-gil’s waist, setting his fingers gently against the plane of his stomach. Seung-gil’s South Korea jacket is gone, leaving him in only the skintight turtleneck that exposes exactly how slender he is.

Phichit moves close enough that their thighs and hips touch and Seung-gil’s arm presses against his chest. He decides it’s enough to demonstrate support and says, “Did something happen?”

Seung-gil doesn’t tense, but he doesn’t settle, either.

Phichit takes a risk and rubs his hand slowly up and down Seung-gil’s side.

Seung-gil lets out a low huff. “I don’t know,” he says. It’s clear from his tone that that isn’t the full truth, but Phichit can’t bring himself to make this observation aloud.

He goes for his third and final push and notches his chin on Seung-gil’s shoulder. Seung-gil's hair smells generically clean, probably from whatever shampoo the hotel provides, but the fabric around his neck is something much more nuanced. Some expensive fabric softener he’s surprised Seung-gil would own. He’s warm everywhere.

To Phichit’s surprise, his self-motivated decision has Seung-gil’s body relaxing against his by the smallest of degrees. Phichit holds on a little tighter and makes a quiet noise of encouragement when Seung-gil leans against him.

He decides not to ask anything more. He closes his eyes instead, breathing in measured beats until he feels Seung-gil match him.

Phichit doesn’t let go, not even when his leg falls asleep, and his heart warms when Seung-gil whispers, “Thank you,” in Thai.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TOUCHING HAS BEEN ESTABLISHED. \:D/
> 
> [adds "slow burn" to tags]


	6. Chapter 6

He leaves Seung-gil’s room just after midnight, leaving a great deal unsaid between them. He doesn’t tell Seung-gil that his flight to Bangkok is scheduled for tomorrow afternoon, and Seung-gil doesn’t share what he plans to do now that the competition he flew here for is over. In all likelihood he’ll go back to Seoul where his coach must be giving her life choices some serious reflection. Seung-gil will apologize, maybe, and then he'll keep practicing at his home rink through the few days he has before Skate America begins.

Phichit will watch him and support him from his apartment in Bangkok, hugging Hamtaro under his chin.

•

Explaining the last twenty-four hours to Supatra over FaceTime is…a challenge. It’s nearly seven in the morning in France, and almost noon back home in Bangkok when the call begins, and both of them are wired from competition and training respectively. As a result, Supatra interrupts with too many questions, Phichit segues into at least a dozen tangents, and the first twenty minutes of their call becomes little more than a mess of words and noises masquerading as a conversation.

Supatra’s the one who finally pulls them back on track. “Okay, wait,” she says, lifting both palms and closing her eyes. “Let’s take a moment.”

Phichit nods, making a show of inhaling slowly, and Supatra shows solidarity by doing the same.

When they’ve exhaled together, Supatra says, “All right, so. You’re dating the beautiful man you’ve been lusting after for months—congratulations again—”

Phichit winks and flashes a peace sign.

“—So, how’re you gonna handle the rest?”

Phichit considers the question for a long moment, then tilts his head and makes a clueless noise.

“What I mean is, are you going to go public with it?”

“Oh.”

This, Phichit knows, is something he can’t decide on his own. He’s also fairly convinced he knows what direction in which Seung-gil will lean. Just imagining how Seung-gil might handle a high profile public relationship is enough to make Phichit wince.

When he tells her as much, Supatra regards him with mild confusion. “Well, _yeah_ , but it doesn’t _have_ to be high profile.”

Phichit presses his hand to his face and whines, “Yes, it does! It’s inevitable! I have accounts across four social media platforms that I update multiple times a day, a very active YouTube channel, and a _very_ observant fanbase! And Seung-gil’s fans are even sharper!” He lifts Hamtaro from his lap and gives him a gentle demonstrative shake. “They’ve already figured out where he came from!”

The photo he posted last night of Hamtaro wearing his medal was quickly spliced with a photo of Seung-gil in the stands holding the same plush in his arms while he watched Phichit skate. The connection has convinced a sizable portion of both fan bases that he and Seung-gil are hiding a relationship. Which, he supposes, they sort of are. _Now_.

“Maybe just don’t announce you’re dating?” Supatra suggests. “But don’t hide it either? Hold his hand if you want, kiss him on the cheek, whatever adorable fantasies you’re cooking up.”

Phichit reels his expression back from the soppy smile it was submitting to.

“If people ask, just dodge the questions.”

“That might just make them more curious,” Phichit says.

“Tell them and ask for privacy?”

The two of them share a wry smile.

“Okay, fine,” Supatra says, and makes a show of picking up something invisible and putting it aside. “You can handle that mess with him. I want to hear more about the cuddling.” She picks up a pastel green iced drink from her desk off screen and winks over her sunglasses. “Is he needier than you?”

•

At eight thirty, Phichit wanders down to the lounge where they’re serving breakfast and sits with Minami, Emil, and their coaches. While Emil’s coach eagerly explains the plot of an old TV show none of them have seen, Phichit volleys his focus between the conversation, the unseen good morning message he sent Seung-gil an hour ago, the door to the lounge that Seung-gil never walks through, and his food.

When Phichit returns to his room at nine thirty, he crawls back into bed with Hamtaro for a nap, wishing he didn’t know firsthand what Seung-gil’s body heat feels like and how much more comfortable he'd be with someone to hold onto. He keeps his phone’s volume on and peeks at the screen whenever an alert chimes, leading to the least effective nap of his life.

•

At eleven, a message arrives from Celestino asking if Phichit is ready to meet in the lobby for their noon check-out. Phichit, long since packed and browsing fanart of himself on Tumblr, responds with a cheerful string of emoji.

Celestino sends back a handful of thumbs up emoji and one hamster emoji as a garnish.

Phichit loves his coach.

His conversation with Supatra has left him sure of some things and uneasy about others. When eleven thirty rolls around and Seung-il still hasn't so much as _seen_ Phichit’s message, Phichit leaves his room and heads down the hallway toward Seung-gil’s.

As he approaches the door, Phichit registers raised voices with some alarm. One is Seung-gil, though it takes Phichit a moment to believe the intuition telling him it is. He's never heard Seung-gil’s voice at that volume before. The other voice is unfamiliar, and Phichit can't even begin to guess who it might be since all the shouting is in Korean.

Phichit feels safe in assuming that whatever dramatic scene is going on in that room is the reason Seung-gil hasn't been checking his phone. Phichit gives thought to walking away and letting Seung-gil handle whatever is happening in there on his own, but…

Phichit is but a curious creature, and mysteries cannot be allowed. Plus, he can’t very well leave the country without a hug goodbye from his boyfriend who brings him stuffed animals, can he?

He knocks on the door three times like Seung-gil requested last night, and the shouting stops. He just barely makes out someone’s footsteps on the rug inside when the door jerks open.

The man before Phichit is, at first glance, both frightening and familiar. He’s taller than Phichit and a little broader, with dyed blond hair and a commanding gaze that jolts Phichit’s memory.

“You're in that Kdrama about the bananas!” Phichit exclaims in English.

The guy covers his reflexive grin behind his hand and only lowers it when he's returned his expression back to something more neutral. “And you're dating my little brother,” he answers, also in English.

Phichit’s mouth opens, but no word in any language he knows satisfactorily summarizes his surprise.

The guy leans back, still holding the door handle, and says, “Come in. I'm scolding your boyfriend, if you want to watch.”

Phichit can't decide if he thinks that's funny or not. On the one hand, he remembers Seung-gil’s rare, often bitter mentions of his brothers. But this brother has a gloriously handsome face, far more chiseled than Seung-gil’s, and he exudes an aura of grace and charm. Surely this brother isn’t one of the bad ones?

Phichit ends up walking into the room without actually giving his body the instructions to move.

Seung-gil is seated on the bed, but every tight line of his body suggests he was just standing. He greets Phichit with a complex expression before he drops his gaze. Some of the fight visibly leaves him, at least.

“Should I continue in English for his benefit?” Seung-gil’s brother asks, his tone light.

Seung-gil mutters something biting in Korean.

“Now, little brother, don't exclude your new boyfriend. He should know what he's getting into.”

Tension builds in Seung-gil’s shorter, much leaner frame. He snaps something else in Korean, then pins the lamp on the table with a sour look.

“He says his English isn't good enough,” Seung-gil’s brother tells Phichit in a loud whisper.

“Shut the fuck up,” Seung-gil says, glowering up at him. “Don't translate for me.”

“Then speak for yourself,” Seung-gil’s brother laughs, unfazed.

Phichit summons a bit of courage and says, “Ah, I'm sorry, but…may I have your name?”

“You don't need it,” Seung-gil says, just as his brother turns to Phichit with a winning smile and says, “Sorry, how rude of me. Lee Hae-il! I'm his second oldest brother. The handsome one.”

Seung-gil groans and, clearly at the last of his energy reserves, drops back onto the bed, arms flung out on either side of him. He throws a few words at the ceiling that has Hae-il rolling his eyes.

“I was just as handsome before the surgery, you little shit,” he says.

Phichit interrupts their back and forth with a wâi. “Sà-wàt-dii khráp.”

He catches Seung-gil mouthing it, still starfished on the bed, and smiles. The air in the room doesn't feel as aggressive as Phichit assumed it would be from the noise he heard outside. He's seen and heard enough arguments between siblings of various nationalities to guess that this is a normal level of vitriol.

“When did you arrive?” Phichit asks Hae-il.

“Last night,” Hae-il says, folding his arms. “Our mother and his coach have been panicking, so I said I'd stop by and check in on him.”

The way he says that gives Phichit the very clear impression that those are the only details about his trip that he’ll be willing to share. Phichit is suddenly and irreversibly reminded of Viktor’s press conferences.

Phichit looks across the room at Seung-gil, who's dragging himself back into a seated position with a mutinous scowl. Phichit reflects on how smitten he himself must be that it's only a little intimidating and mostly just cute.

“Are you going back to Seoul?” he asks.

Seung-gil opens his mouth, but Hae-il clearly has the stronger grasp on the language and chirps, “That's what we’ve been discussing.”

“‘Discuss’,” Seung-gil snorts. He follows this up with a long stream of bitter-sounding Korean.

Hae-il picks up a pair of rolled up socks from Seung-il’s open suitcase and lobs them at his brother’s head. “Watch your language! And watch who you're calling unemployed. I won a Grand Bell Award.”

“Six years ago,” Seung-gil says.

“At least I _won_ ,” Hae-il says.

Seung-gil’s lips tighten and Hae-il makes a sound that effectively communicates his temptation to chuck the rest of Seung-gil’s suitcase at him.

Abruptly, Seung-gil points at Phichit and says something to his brother in Korean before something catches him and he switches to English. “I don't want to talk about this with him here.”

Phichit tries to ignore how that stings. “I can leave,” he says.

Seung-gil jolts and stares at him, his face blank while he processes. Finally, he says, “Can I—” and stops himself again. He gives Hae-il a sour frown. “Get out. Let me talk to him alone.”

There's reluctance in the taut line of Hae-il's mouth, but when Phichit gives him a hopeful look, he says, “Fine. I'll be back in ten minutes. And I’m not going far, _and_ I'm also taking this.” He grabs Seung-gil’s smartphone off the desk, presumably as collateral. He claps Phichit on the shoulder and says, “Congratulations on the medal, by the way! I read the article he sent me.” He gives Seung-gil a parting smirk and slides out the door just as Seung-gil chucks a pillow after him.

Phichit picks it up off the floor and pins Seung-gil with a half-amused, half-exasperated look.

Seung-gil pinches his nose and punches out a sigh.

“I like your brother,” Phichit confesses.

“Yeah,” Seung-gil says, eyes shut. “Everyone does.”

Phichit carries the pillow back to the bed, tossing it back against the headboard far behind Seung-gil. He then follows an instinct and pulls a chair to sit in, directly opposite Seung-gil. It's then that Seung-gil opens his eyes, just as Phichit encircles Seung-gil’s wrist with a gentle grasp. When he tugs, Seung-gil allows his arm to relax and drop into his lap. With an air of victory, Phichit interlaces their fingers.

“Now can you tell me what's happening?” he teases.

Seung-gil nods, inhaling and exhaling with equally put-upon effort. “Yesterday, I talked to my coach. Also my mother. And my oldest brother. And my father. He—” he jerks his chin at the door, presumably indicating Hae-il, “wrote to me from the airport. He took a jet here.”

Phichit winces and, out of sympathy and a tiny thread of guilt, starts to rub his thumb over Seung-gil’s knuckles. He remembers the one middle-aged commentator who occasionally made the odd remark about the wealth of Seung-gil’s family, as if trying to imply something about Seung-gil’s skill. He’s been off the circuit for years, thankfully, but Phichit remembers him well because it was through him that Phichit had his first inkling that the Korean boy who seemed to only own three outfits had any familiarity with a life of extraordinary means.

Having seen photos of Seung-gil’s house, the one he lives in by himself, and the separate house his family owns _in the same city_ , Phichit has no trouble believing that Hae-il flew from South Korea to France by jet just to toe the line for his younger brother. Though, considering Hae-il’s career, he probably didn’t even need to touch the family wealth for this trip.

Seung-gil makes a deep-throated noise and says, “Min-so wants to quit.”

Phichit makes an automatic noise of surprise, even though this is one of the least surprising things Seung-gil could have told him.

He nods once and studies the clasp of their hands, simultaneously protective of Seung-gil and sympathetic to Min-so. She never struggles half as much with her other skaters—Jung-oh follows her every direction, from what Seung-gil tells him, and Tae-woo used to sing her praises to Phichit. It's only Seung-gil who constantly makes her work for his attention and respect.

“Maybe it’s a good thing?” Phichit offers.

Seung-gil wrenches his head up, staring at Phichit in wounded bewilderment.

Phichit senses he’s misstepped and reminds himself that as much as he’s learned, there are still mountains of memories they haven't come to yet. There must be a lot to that relationship that he doesn't know. He winces and tries again. “I mean—I’m sorry. Not good. Just, um. Not terrible?”

“It’s fine,” Seung-gil says, though his hand has gone limp in Phichit’s. His lips part while he considers his next words, but when he decides on what he wants to say, it’s nothing more complex than, “She doesn’t like me.”

The instinctive, optimistic urge to deny that is strong, but Phichit manages to keep silent. He doesn’t know how Min-so feels; he can’t speak for her. He knows Seung-gil is difficult for some people, and he’s certainly seen the relationship between a coach and skater crumble before. He watched firsthand as Yuuri faded inside himself while Celestino scrambled for any way to reach him.

That kind of collapse can be difficult to see coming. Sometimes, it can be chalked up to any one of many simple, harsh realities: a clash of personalities, a bad season, an injury, a personal demon—a million potential obstacles always lie in wait, and some of them just can’t be conquered.

But he can’t say that to Seung-gil either. Not with a time limit he’s not sure Hae-il will keep them to. Just seeing Seung-gil’s sloped shoulders makes Phichit’s heart sore, and he can't leave knowing he made Seung-gil feel worse.

“You’re not unlikable,” he says, tentative.

Seung-gil raises his eyes. Not a single emotion plays out on his face.

Phichit pulls Seung-gil’s hand up to his lips and kisses a knuckle at random. “Maybe you just need a different coach?” He smiles against Seung-gil’s skin. “It worked for Yuuri,” he points out.

Seung-gil snorts, but his hand trembles a little in Phichit’s grasp. The squeeze he gives Phichit’s thumb sends warmth washing through Phichit’s chest.

“You wanna do it?” Seung-gil asks, and it startles a laugh out of Phichit.

“Was that a joke?” Phichit grins and rests his chin on the back of Seung-gil’s hand. “You told a joke just now?”

“Shut up,” Seung-gil says, turning pink. “I can tell jokes.”

Phichit laughs outright. When he brings himself back under control, Seung-gil’s tiny smile is comfortably in place.

“Is your brother trying to make you go back today?” Phichit asks.

Seung-gil nods, but he doesn't look as upset as he did when Phichit came in just now or last night when he seemed on the verge of caving in on himself. “He wants me to come back and make—uh, convince? Min-so to stay until the GPF is finished.” The cold veins of “if I make it that far” are thick in his voice.

There are a number of ways Phichit could answer that and he dismisses all of them. Seung-gil knows most of it—changing coaches so soon before the Olympics is unthinkable. Min-so, despite her ongoing frustration with him, has been Seung-gil’s coach since he was a kid—she may _want_ to quit, but surely she wouldn't call it in on such short notice with Seung-gil so close to skating in the Olympics for the first time?

Phichit ends up going with, “Do you know what you're going to say to her?”

Seung-gil shakes his head, casting his gaze off to the side.

Phichit releases his hand and folds his arms on Seung-gil’s knees instead. “Listen,” he says, pitching his voice softer, “I know you and she don't have the best relationship.” He waits for Seung-gil to snort or make a face at this obvious understatement, but Seung-il only watches him and waits. Phichit smiles a little, touched by his patience. “I don't think it's hopeless, though. I think she cares about you, and of course I think she likes you. You just…” He takes a breath and lets it out on a laugh. “I just…don't think you make communicating easy for her.”

He could say more— _wants_ to say more and maybe _should_ say more—but he takes both the delicate subject matter and Seung-gil’s struggle with the language into consideration and leaves it there.

Seung-gil purses his lips and nods. He doesn't answer.

Phichit leans close and butts his head gently against Seung-gil’s chest. “Maybe I should study Korean?” he asks, only half teasing. “Maybe then we could communicate in our native languages.”

Seung-gil peers at some point on the wall over Phichit’s head and makes a soft noise of dry amusement. It’s clear from that one noise alone that he doesn’t believe for a second that Phichit would actually pick up a third language. Even though that’s exactly what he himself is doing.

And while it isn’t a _direct_ challenge…

Seung-gil’s arm comes to rest on Phichit’s back—gently and barely with any weight at all. His fingers begin as five small indents, his hand a tense claw, then gradually the pressure shifts into a broader area of warmth as Seung-gil splays his palm across Phichit’s spine.

Phichit smiles against Seung-gil’s collarbone and makes a note to scour YouTube for language videos to watch on the plane.

•

Celestino gets them to the airport criminally early because his flight leaves before Phichit’s, and Phichit sulks a little for the time he could have spent with Seung-gil working up to a _real_ hug. A Both Arms kind of hug. He curls up on a sofa in the business lounge and reads through his latest messages while Celestino scouts out the buffet. The first message he addresses is from Ji-na.

[i saw hae il is here!!! did u meet him?? isn’t he gorgeous?]

Phichit grins and writes, [He’s not gorgeous, he’s GORGEOUS.]

[didn’t u know about him?]

[That he’s Seung-gil’s brother? No. No one told me. -__-]

[it’s not really well known! hae-il is his real name. he uses a different one for his celebrity idol image. and seung-gil isn’t that popular outside skating so no one really thinks about the possibility. aaand they don’t really look alike.]

[Ah, yeah, didn’t Hae-il get surgery?]

[HE DID???]

Phichit makes a sheepish noise. [I have no idea, I just read it somewhere.]

[oh whew! yeah that kind of surgery is really common but he’s naturally perfect! I HAVE FAITH IN HIM PHICHIT]

A message from Seung-gil drops down from the top of his screen and Phichit changes chats.

[Are you at the airport?]

[Yep!] Phichit photographs his sneakered feet hanging off the sofa, framed by the large floor-to-ceiling window with taxiing planes in the background. He sends it along with a winking emoji.

[How much longer until your flight?]

Phichit glances at the timestamp on his phone and writes, [Another two hours. Celestino’s flight leaves before mine so he wanted to make sure I got here on time. I can’t imagine why he’d be worried about that.]

Something about showing up at Phichit's door only to find an abandoned suitcase inside the room.

Seung-gil’s ‘Read’ appears, but his response doesn’t arrive within twenty seconds, so Phichit skips back to his chat with Yuuri.

[How’s your hangover?] he writes.

[How ddi you know?? Didd I mail you last night.?]

Phichit giggles to himself as Celestino sets down on the table before them a plate of one muffin and a sprig of grapes. [I just took a guess,] he admits to Yuuri.

[Phhhhiiiiichiiiiiit-kuuuuun…….]

Celestino glances over his shoulder and snorts. “At least thanks to Viktor, Yakov has stopped calling me the ‘fun coach’,” he says after a sip of coffee.

Phichit peers up at him with incredulity. “No one has ever called you that,” he says.

Celestino winks and lifts a pinky from his cup. “Ahh, but you can’t prove they haven’t.” He pulls out his phone and settles in to play his candy game.

Rolling his eyes, Phichit starts to scroll through his Twitter notifications and sees a new follower included on the list with the nickname written in Hangul. Even though he already has a good idea of who it is, Phichit runs the profile through Google Translate. When “singer, model, actor from ‘the kdrama about the bananas’” pops up, he grins, and when he gets to “baby brother: @seung-gillee” tagged on at the end, he outright laughs.

Even though Seung-gil hasn’t responded to his last message yet, Phichit sends a screenshot of his new follower to Seung-gil, who promptly writes back, [He just did that. He's an idiot.]

Phichit hides a smile in his scarf. [He loves you.]

[.]  
[..]  
[…],  
writes Seung-gil.

Phichit wishes he hadn't packed Hamtaro into his checked luggage so he'd have something to muffle his giggles.

•

Phichit lands in Bangkok after two long layovers to an internet maelstrom. As he’s winding through the airport headed toward baggage claim, he pieces together the major areas of interest over multiple social media platforms. In order of priority:

1) Seung-gil and Hae-il were followed by fans to the airport in Grenoble. Even after the brothers were ushered by Hae-il’s bodyguard staff to a sectioned-off area where the jets were parked, one of the more terrifying fans seized and ran off with one of Hae-il’s mittens. It’s already been sold online for a staggering sum by the time Phichit sees the fan tweet condemning this behavior.

In all the photos he can find, Seung-gil’s head is ducked or hidden behind his arm, and Hae-il’s expression is cold and annoyed. The only photo Phichit is tempted to save to his phone is a screenshot from a fan-recorded video where Hae-il is shielding Seung-gil from grasping fists with an arm stretched across his back.

His hand is bare.

2) Yuuri and Viktor got…engaged? Again? This time drunk in a cable car overlooking the night view of Grenoble. There are… _so many photos_ on Viktor’s Instagram account.

3) In response to all the plushie madness, Phichit’s fans have cast Hamtaro as Phichit. They’ve set up the hashtag #seunggilwho asking for suggestions as to what character they should cast as Seung-gil.

4) JJ—

An incoming message from Seung-gil drops down from the top of the screen and Phichit’s thumb moves so fast he almost swipes the notification away entirely. He ducks out of the stampede of passengers into the first men’s bathroom he sees to read it with some measure of privacy.

To his surprise, there are two other messages already waiting for him. Either the jet got them home to South Korea faster than three commercial planes could carry Phichit back to Bangkok or the jet has wi-fi access. Whatever the reason, seeing Seung-gil's message and being reminded of the distance renewed between them only makes Phichit aware that his body is sore and he longs for a bed and also a pillow or just Seung-gil's thigh.

The first message from Seung-gil, timestamped three hours ago, reads, [Someone stole Hae-il’s mitten. I hate that fan behavior too but it’s funny to see him yell for two hours about a mitten.]

The next, timestamped twenty-three minutes after, reads, [I bought the mitten.]

His latest message simply reads, [Can we talk on FaceTime sometimes?]

Phichit breathes in, sharp, and sends back an eager mash of thumbs up, beaming smileys, and exclamation mark emoji. He thinks about sending the Korean word for "yes" that he learned, but he decides to save the surprise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like playing a game with myself called "how many times would Viktuuri get engaged"? (All the times. Even after they're married.)


	7. Chapter 7

Returning to Bangkok reunites Phichit with his precious hamsters, his beloved mattress, his necessary morning training, and his forgotten container of gray fuzz in the refrigerator. On his first day, he wakes up at 4:13 in the morning with no hope of falling back asleep and decides to burn his energy with small tasks. He spends some time filming a general update for YouTube, browses the #roadtopyeongchang2018 tag on Twitter, sorts several photos from the past few days into his Upload to Instagram folder, and prints out a few new additions to his Wall of Memorable Chats (mostly with Seung-gil, but also one in which Phichit tried to explain the plot of Hamtaro to Leo and failed to spectacular hilarity). He sends a few messages, but no one responds. He does get a ‘Read’ from Yuuri, but he doesn’t expect much more; Yuuri’s the “read and respond a few hours later if at all” type.

At sunrise, Phichit deems himself sleepy enough to drag himself back to his bedroom. He checks on his darlings on the way and finds Arthur sprawled out between his more docile siblings. He chances a photo burst, selects the best twelve to keep, then climbs back into bed to curl around one of his seven spare pillows.

His bedroom is sans windows, so he always leaves his door open to let in some of the sunlight that pours in through the balcony doors in the living room. Slices of amber sneak across his blanketed legs as the sun climbs higher, and Phichit wonders if Seung-gil likes to sleep with all the doors in the room shut. He seems like he might, but if Phichit’s learned anything so far, it’s not to rely too firmly on his expectations. He squeezes the pillow in his arms, inhales through his nose, and drifts off smiling.

•

It's Wednesday morning when Phichit fully appreciates the new “attached” life he’s living. It’s his third day back, and the normalcy of his routine—snack (and messaging), training, breakfast (and messaging), YouTube/Twitter/(lunch)/Instagram/Snapchat (and messaging), dropping in to see his parents, dinner (and messaging), sleep—makes the frequency and changed tone of his messages with Seung-gil stand out.

Now, for example, there's potential for _calls_. While they still mostly write to each other, falling back on habit, even knowing that making a call has become a possibility gives Phichit a clear marker for the progress they've made. 

The wall between them must be shorter, the distance more bridgeable.

He thinks back on the last few months as he cuts across the ice. Cool-down laps are a good time for self-reflection, as the adrenaline courses through him and the repetition of gliding around the perimeter of the ice over and over settles his mind. As he's finishing up, he hears a coach nearby tell her young students not to get in his way.

He doesn't give it much thought until later when he's standing in the lobby of the rink, letting the occasional burst of hot air from outside gradually bring his body temperature back up. A young boy approaches him and Phichit spares him an absent smile over his phone, thinking the boy is with his family. But the boy keeps getting closer, his eyes bright with starstruck nerves.

Phichit’s smile grows. “Hello,” he says, lowering his phone a bit to show the boy he's not interrupting anything.

He's maybe seven or eight, and he's got a bright blue jacket dragging low around his elbows and the straps of his backpack loosened to nearly ineffective lengths. His shaggy hair reminds Phichit of Yuuri’s baby photos.

“Excuse me, can I take a picture with you?” the boy asks, all in one breath like he rehearsed it and he's afraid he'll forget to include a word if he isn’t quick. Phichit notices the phone in his hand, almost too wide for his small fingers.

As Phichit’s heart brims over, he laughs and says, “Of course!” He crouches down and holds his own phone out. “We can both take one!”

The boy’s name is probably not “Skrt”, but that's the noise that squeaks out of him when Phichit asks. Probably-Sukrit asks for a signature on his phone case and produces a marker with a wild grin.

While Phichit scrawls out the signature he's recently perfected, Sukrit blurts, “You're really cool,” and then bounces a little on his heels, apparently for emphasis.

The boy’s coach is close by, it turns out, only standing a few meters away. When the photos have been taken and the boy is running off to show his friends, she gives Phichit a waî and a warm smile for indulging her student.

He returns both and barely controls his pace as he leaves the rink. The urge to share what just happened with someone is overpowering, but for once, his impulse is not to share with the world, but with only a small part of it.

Seung-gil picks up halfway into the first ring.

“Early,” he says by way of greeting.

Phichit ignores the sour tone and tells him, “Guess what just happened to me.”

To his surprise, Seung-gil says, “Your skate broke.”

Delighted to have him playing along, Phichit doesn't share how amused he is that despite his cheerful tone Seung-gil’s first guess is something negative. “Nope. Try again.”

“You fell.”

“Yep, but not today.”

“…Both your skates broke.”

Phichit rolls his eyes, adjusting the sticky strap of his bag off the bare slope of his shoulder onto the sheer fabric of his shirt. He seeks shade while skirting a group of schoolkids dashing and screaming in his direction. “Why do you think it was related to skating?” he asks.

“You're a figure skater,” Seung-gil says, “and you just finished practice.”

Phichit hears sheets rustling on Seung-gil’s end and lifts both eyebrows, a smile lifting his mouth. “Seung-gil, are you really still in bed?”

“Yes. What happened to you?”

Phichit acknowledges the dodge with silence, then says, “A little boy wanted a picture with me at my home rink.”

Seung-gil’s laugh is more breath than sound and Phichit imagines how it would feel against his neck. He wishes he had his earphones on to block out the squall of city noise around him.

“I see his class sometimes,” Phichit continues. As he crosses an intersection, he offers to an elderly tuk-tuk driver a smile that's warmly returned. “It used to be just me and these three female skaters, but now I see kids, too. I mean, there's only six of them, I think, and that's not many compared to other countries, but…I wonder if they watched me and Praiya last year and that's what made some of them decide to try it. Part of me hopes so, y’know? I didn't have anyone like us when I was a kid.”

He had legends like Viktor Nikiforov and Desdemona Breiss and Juliette Chen. Then he had peers—people like Yuuri who cheered for him, people like Chris who advised him. Now he has dreamers, hopeful new skaters close behind him on the path he’s tried to illuminate for them.

Seung-gil doesn't offer a response, but Phichit doesn't really need one for this. It's enough to know someone has heard him.

•

The general public still doesn't know the extent of Phichit’s relationship with Seung-gil, but the skating world is divided into direct witnesses of their relationship developing (Ji-na and Mila), those who were indirectly informed (everyone who knows Ji-na and Mila), and those who figured it out independently based on Gossip and Reliable Sources. Seung-gil doesn't seem to mind, but then, he doesn’t talk to many other skaters and Phichit is 93% convinced that Seung-gil doesn't check his own social media mentions nearly as much or as closely as Phichit does.

Seung-gil’s last post on Twitter—a twenty-second video of his Olympic routine—collects the majority of recent comments people make, and the majority of comments made focus on one subject.

@ookamijanai Hi sorry but are u and Phichit Cuulanun dating???  
@underdregs88 Is it true about you and Phichit?  
@yank1soba あのースンギルくん！本当にピチットくんと付き合ってるかな？？  
@829473100 SEUNGCHUCHUUUUU!  
@cherrysweet Seriously if you're dating him, good for you. Phichit is an angel. You two would be adorable.  
@eewaeewa Please please please be dating Phichit! We’ll get better updates if you are! ;D

The curiosity from fans is one thing. It's natural, and Phichit enjoys most of the speculation and their enthusiastic encouragement (with a few easily avoidable exceptions).

Friends are another matter altogether, and if Phichit believed for any length of time that the people in his life would lose interest in the Mysterious Appearance of Seung-Gil Lee in Grenoble 2017, those misconceptions are summarily destroyed through a weeklong volley of messages from the most to least expected sources.

Guang Hong, of course, has yet to give up, and his latest message is, [Your last photo had that hamster Seung-gil gave you in it! How cute!]

Leo’s is, [Congratulations…? □Yes □No □Unsure]

Chris’s is, [A collar,] which was in response to Phichit asking him what to send to Seung-gil when(!) he medals in Skate America.

Mila’s is, [Are you gonna announce it or wait for your fans to hunt down evidence?]

Phichit deftly maneuvers around all of them with a laughing stamp and a new subject. After all, he still doesn't have Seung-gil’s thoughts on moving their seedling relationship into public lighting, and he has the feeling he already knows what Seung-gil will have to say about it.

Naturally, the idea of concealing a relationship forever doesn't appeal to Phichit. The longer Viktor and Yuuri last, the more Phichit realizes how much he wants the simple freedom that they have; he wants their easy familiarity, their comfort in front of the cameras, their sweet touches and absent smiles.

And he's not going to get those if he doesn't find out where Seung-gil stands on a number of things.

•

That night, curled up in bed with his phone and Hamtaro against his chest, Phichit writes to the guy he's been soft-dating for a little over a week.

[I’ve wanted to bring this up a few times, but I can't think of a good way to do it, so I'm just going to bring it up like this. I think it might be easier in writing anyway! I've never had a serious relationship before, and I live so much of my life pretty openly online, but that's just me. I don't want you to ever feel like you have to do what I do. I don't mind trying to be more subtle or keeping this a secret completely. I just want you to feel comfortable, you know? But I do someday want to be more public, if that's okay with you? Not this month or even in six months, but someday. I know you might not be okay with it and it's not a deal breaker if you can't do that but maybe we can consider it in a few months?]

He sends it with an impulsive stroke of his thumb, overcoming the urge to delete all of it.

When ‘Read’ appears, Phichit panics and shuts off his phone entirely. Leaving it plugged in with the charging icon aglow, Phichit snuggles against Hamtaro and sighs.

•

He wakes up in a fog and grabs his phone, squinting into the weak light from the sunrise. He sorts through his message notifications on the lock screen, but Seung-gil’s name isn't among them.

He even checks their chat box, but only finds his text brick still there, ‘Read’ and unacknowledged.

Phichit sets his phone back on the nightstand, his stomach in knots, and leans down to pick up Hamtaro where he's tumbled onto the floor. He sleeps worse after that.

•

Later that day, Seung-gil boards a plane for the United States. Phichit is in the middle of a five-hour practice with Celestino, whose arrival has put an end to Phichit’s casual ninety-minute training sessions. Near the end of training, Phichit’s left calf cramps up, so Celestino calls Phichit’s favorite massage place to book an appointment while Phichit showers.

He doesn't see Seung-gil’s parting messages until he's changed into loose clothes that cling to his damp skin, wandering out of the locker room with his phone in hand.

[Plane leaves soon.]

[Talked a lot with Min-so. Don't know if everything is good.]

[At airport. Fans not here.]

[Fans are here.]

[Boarding plane.]

[Thank you for calling me sometimes.]

[I don't know what we should do. Talk more after Skate America?]

That's the last one, sent over an hour ago. Phichit covers his chest with his hand, indulging himself in a moment of intense feelings.

 _We_.

The thought of Seung-gil in a plane seat writing that last message, choosing each word carefully, is enough to propel Phichit unseeing into Celestino.

It isn't the first time Phichit’s run into him, evidenced by Celestino not moving a muscle beyond raising both eyebrows.

“Sorry, Ciao Ciao,” Phichit says, suspecting his smile is obscenely saccharine.

Celestino claps him on the back, his expression wry. “I wonder if this has also become a problem for Min-so,” he says.

Phichit reddens a little as they turn toward the lobby. “I don't think so,” he says. “Seung-gil wouldn't admit it, but he's trying to stay on her good side, I think.”

Celestino receives that with a low hum, almost a chuckle. “As long as I don't wake up tomorrow to news that my skater is on a plane to New York, you'll hear no complaints from me.”

“I would never do that!” Phichit exclaims. He shuts down the fiendish part of him that was calculating how much a last-minute trip to JFK would cost.

“Mm,” says Celestino, side-eyeing him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit shorter than usual this week due to scheduling/attending a concert issues. ;)
> 
> Thank you for leaving comments and feedback every week. It means a lot to me. ♡


	8. Chapter 8

Seung-gil’s plane has barely touched the tarmac in New York when Seung-gil sends Phichit a vow that he’s never flying again. More accurately, his message says, [Plane travel is shit. I’m staying in New York until someone moves all the countries back into the same land shape,] but Phichit can guess the subtext.

Phichit asks Seung-gil who’ll take care of Sunja, and Seung-gil writes back, [My brother.]

[Hae-il or someone else?]

[Dae-sung. He’s my oldest brother. Hae-il is a moron.]

[Aw, you don’t trust Hae-il with your baby?]

[No.]

Phichit sends back a giggling hamster stamp.

Seung-gil responds with his new favorite stamp: a rainbow-colored shooting star with a deadpan expression. The stamp set it comes from is based on some popular web cartoon about a lazy shooting star who refuses to shine or even move. Seung-gil is slowly becoming a bit of a fanboy for it…as much of one as he’s capable of being, at least. His own fans don’t know yet, but Phichit’s looking forward to the inevitable reaction when they find out.

[What’s Dae-sung like?]

[Not as much of a moron as Hae-il.]

[Aww, is he your favorite brother then?]

[I don’t have a favorite.]

[I think you do~]

[…No.]

Phichit fully intends on pestering him more, but Celestino deftly takes his phone away and points to the ice. He spends the next two hours lost in his head, looking forward to finding out what aspect of air travel moved Seung-gil to wish for a return to Pangaea.

It would be a cute moment to share on Twitter, wouldn’t it?

•

Seung-gil’s messages and, of course, participation on social media decrease dramatically once he’s in the States. Skate America has Phichit’s stomach in queasy knots, so he can only imagine how Seung-gil feels. Phichit offers him what little support he can think of, little tokens to show he’s cheering him on. He sends iterations of the Doge meme every few hours and once, to Phichit’s utter joy, Seung-gil writes back, [ha]. Phichit is so proud of himself he preens for an hour.

Min-so’s Twitter and Instagram accounts, on the other hand, have seen a recent spike in activity. She’s been posting two or three times a day for the last several days, usually about Seung-gil and always in Korean. The evening before the competition, she uploads a video of Seung-gil practicing compulsory figures while she explains something Phichit can’t understand. Below, one of the commenters has helpfully translated into English: “Coach Min-so’s saying Seung-gil does a lot of strict practice on his own, and he’s usually already started before she even arrives at the rink! She says after she finishes recording she’s going to reprimand him for not following their training plan and getting some rest ahahahaha”.

The translation spurs Seung-gil’s fans into sharing what they know about Seung-gil’s love for compulsory figures, and Phichit gleefully reads every single piece of information. User @pluckwhales provides maybe the cutest one, which is: “omg his love for compulsory figures is the legit hardest part of being a Seung-gil Lee fan. The man has been complaining about the elimination of compulsory figures from international competition since he was SIX YEARS OLD.” She’s included a link in her comment to a LiveJournal entry from 2010 about a tiny, solemn fourteen-year-old junior skater named Seung-gil Lee who, according to the scanned and translated article at the top of the page, fell in love with skating because of compulsory figures at the age of six and has been trying to understand why they were cut from competition ever since.

“Are you good at them?” the reporter asked him.

The article claims Seung-gil stared back at her for a few seconds, then asked her what she meant by that. At which point, Min-so took over.

Phichit grins, unsurprised. The only written conversation he and Seung-gil have ever had in which Seung-gil had more to say was about Jean-Christophe Simond and his skill in compulsory figures. Entirely unprompted, Seung-gil sent Phichit four whole text bricks back to back practically glowing with praise for the mathematical precision and painstaking focus involved, first in creating the figures from nothing, and then in correcting one’s small errors in successive tracings. He concluded, of course, with a bitter comment about the Golden Days when compulsory figures were _compulsory_.

Phichit remembers sending back a smiling emoji and some lukewarm remark about Scott Hamilton’s back change loop in the ’84 Olympics (a feat of excellence he only knew off the top of his head because Seung-gil posted a link to it on Twitter when Phichit was still net stalking him).

No one seems to truly understand Seung-gil’s obsession with what many consider to be a time-consuming pain in the ass, but watching Min-so’s video…

As Seung-gil traces figures on the ice, his face is blank, but paradoxically, his body is almost startlingly open. Where Phichit locks down for figures, struggling to hold his balance and keep up his speed, Seung-gil seems to actually _relax_ into the unforgiving movements the exercise demands. He peers over his shoulder as he traces over his figure, his lips moving—Phichit realizes with a jolt—to whatever song he’s listening to on his iPod. He makes it look so simple, so elegant. He’s in a world by himself out there.

Phichit picks up his phone and, in spite of the three unread messages he’s already sent, sends Seung-gil a screencap of Min-so’s video and writes, inanely, [What song were you listening to?]

Predictably, Seung-gil doesn’t write back, so Phichit switches over to his chat with Chris and writes, [I just spent two hours translating Korean articles about Seung-gil as a child,] which isn’t true, but sounds funny and also it’s what it feels like he’s been doing for all that his heart is both warm and rushing far too fast.

Chris promptly writes back, [At this rate, you’re not going to have any honeymoon feelings left for the honeymoon.]

Phichit sends back a crying hamster stamp and flops backward onto his sofa for some productive pining noises that his hamsters benevolently observe without judgment.

•

The day of the competition, Phichit receives a tidal wave of messages packed with curiosity.

[Are you going to watch Skate America by yourself?] Supatra writes.

[watch SA with me!!!] Guang Hong writes.

[Thanks for the retweet, Phichit!] Minami writes, followed quickly by, [I’m really excited to see Seung-gil skate today!]

And so on and so on.

Ji-na doesn’t write anything, but she does send a video Min-so sent to Jung-oh for some reason. (It backs up Phichit’s budding theory that she likes Jung-oh better, even if Seung-gil is the stronger skater.) In this new video, probably taken from Min-so’s practice recording, both Seung-gil and Min-so are standing by the far wall of the rink while the other skaters take up other areas. The quality of the video suggests it was taken with Min-so’s phone, and it doesn’t pick up any specific audio, just the general white noise inside Herb Brooks Arena. Phichit is about to ask Ji-na why she thought he’d be interested in this when—

Min-so gestures to the ice with a slice of her arm and Seung-gil nods once before absently pulling his leg up into a stretch behind him. He manages an almost perfect split, the likes of which Phichit has never seen from him. The video finishes after about six seconds, and Phichit immediately writes back to Ji-na: [What is this???]

[hahahaha! i thought you’d like that! the full video she sent is longer but that’s the best part. ur welcome!!!]

Phichit considers the potential repercussions of each possible response, then gives up and writes back, [Thank you,] with a heart. She might know more than she should about Phichit’s weak spots for her rinkmate, but she’s sending him secret Team Korea footage; she’s a good ally to keep.

•

As JJ takes to the ice, Arthur climbs onto Phichit’s laptop and faces Phichit with a sunflower seed firmly gripped in his tiny claws. He nibbles the side with an accusing stare, likely resenting how long it took Phichit to give him the meal he’s treating like the first food he’s received in a year.

Phichit attempts an apology with a kiss on the top of his head. With King and Blade asleep in the palm of either hand, he can’t do much more. Tragically, his lackluster show of remorse seems to put Phichit below the sunflower seed in terms of priority and Arthur turns his back on his human roommate.

JJ’s fans give a wild collective noise that startles Phichit into looking at the screen. Nothing Phichit sees warrants that sort of encouragement, so Phichit returns to wheedling his way back into Arthur’s good graces.

“Breakfast wasn’t _that_ late,” he says, pouting. “You’re being a little harsh on me, aren’t you? I have a lot on my mind.”

Arthur gives a dismissive squeak around the tip of the seed. Phichit suspects he’s going to gnaw on it for a full minute to make Phichit feel even guiltier.

JJ finishes with a flourish and screams his trademark phrase to the crowd, who echo it back. Arthur stops chewing long enough to give an emphatic squeak.

Phichit rolls his eyes and sets Blade and King down on their designated cushion, arranging them in a cuddled pile at the very center. None of them stir as he gets up to retrieve a mango juice box from the fridge, and they barely twitch when he eases back onto the bed for the moment of truth.

His phone sits face down on the bed, removing only 20% of the temptation to live-tweet what’s about to happen. Seung-gil’s skate deserves his full attention, even though Phichit knows he’s going to get emotional and the idea of having no one to cling to in his moment of greatest flailing need, even in the abstract, is mildly traumatic.

He bends down and gives Arthur a cajoling noise. “I need someone to snuggle,” he says. He doesn’t care how plaintive he sounds.

Arthur shoves the remainder of the seed he’s holding into his mouth and dashes off the laptop to the little pile sitting next to the cushion. Apparently content with the pitying scene he put on, Arthur starts devouring the rest of the seeds by himself.

Phichit huffs and grabs his hamster plush; Hamtaro fits better in his arms _anyway_.

The streaming channel he’s chosen has a great deal of unnecessary commentary, but it happens to be the most reliable tonight, and Phichit can’t afford the time it would take to check the others now. The camera follows Seung-gil’s body from the waist up as he skates to his position, then pulls farther out to show his short program costume in full—the gorgeous fitted costume that makes Phichit’s fingers clench on Hamtaro’s sides.

“Welcome back,” one of the commentators says. “We’re at Lake Placid, watching the men’s short programs. The leader at the moment is Viktor Nikiforov, having finished a truly spectacular performance earlier. Truly, truly worthy of his legend, I think most would agree. Over the season, we’ve seen a very new side—”

The man keeps talking about Viktor even as Seung-gil’s name flashes across the bottom of the screen and his music begins, so Phichit tunes him out.

Seung-gil pushes into a graceful glide and it strikes Phichit with a flash of stunning clarity that Seung-gil’s form looks solid in spite of everything. His nerves, his situation with his coach, whatever’s happening inside his family—none of it shows in his performance. And whatever his current feelings about his music, he seems to have at last found a way to blend into the notes.

His face might even be a little more expressive than usual, though Phichit can’t trust that he isn’t just projecting what he wants to see.

Seung-gil’s first jump is clean and earns mild praise from all three commentators.

“He’s not the most stimulating performer,” one says, “but he knows what he has to do. He understands the technical aspects better than most, so I guess you could call him a ‘competent’ skater.”

“ _Extremely_ competent,” another says. Her tone suggests she thinks that’s a compliment above what most would give him.

Phichit tunes them out again.

He buries his mouth against Hamtaro’s head, staring hard at the screen. When something small brushes against his bare ankle, he yelps and only settles when he sees Arthur curl against his foot for a nap. Phichit smiles, sheepish, and takes one hand away from Hamtaro to stroke his fingertips in a grateful circle around Arthur’s protruding belly.

Seung-gil’s combination spin travels a little, but looks strong otherwise. Phichit returns his free hand to Hamtaro and squeezes hard.

“—that’s going to cost him—”

Phichit makes a frustrated sound and taps the mute button on his laptop.

The rest of the performance passes in silence for Phichit, but at least he can at least focus on what matters, like the artistic choices he’s not used to seeing. The changes Seung-gil has made to his movements are minute, but they make the overall feel of his performance more passionate somehow.

When he finishes, Seung-gil does something Phichit’s never seen him do: his eyes move across the audience. The camera shows the crowd, peppered with South Korean flags and cheering fans, and when it returns to Seung-gil, Phichit says, “ _Oh_ ,” inside a soft gust of air.

He’s smiling. Not fully, not even the tiny one he’s shown Phichit. His lips have barely even moved, in fact, but he looks…relieved. He bows once, low, and stays in it for longer than he normally would.

Phichit grabs his phone, ignores the messages cascading in, and writes, [I’M SO PROUD OF YOU!!!!] along with a block of emoji containing every variation of heart he can find.

The camera stays with Seung-gil while he navigates around the flowers, the Beanie Baby huskies, and plush hamsters raining onto the ice. He examines all of it, completely casual, then scoops up a small bag of candy from the fringes.

Phichit laughs and switches over to Twitter, emboldened enough to feel confident in the innocence of showing his support for a fellow skater. Seung-gil skated well after all, and even though the man isn’t close to many other skaters, Phichit knows there will be at least a few who will congratulate him publicly.

To his surprise, Michele of all people is the first to post something. It’s in Italian with Seung-gil’s name the only part of it Phichit can quickly identify, but Twitter’s embedded translator reports that it’s kind—if slightly generic—praise. Phichit makes a note to tell Chris later that he’s adjusted his view of Michele.

After a quick scan through the tweets for Seung-gil’s performance from both fans and skaters alike, Phichit adds his own along with the applicable hashtag for the competition. Guang Hong is the first to favorite and retweet it by an extremely narrow margin.

At the first [SEUNGCHUCHU IS REAL!!!], Phichit closes the app and shuts down notifications, wondering if—based on the swiftness of that reaction—maybe he was a little too obvious.

•

[So you’re going public with it?] Sara writes.

[…it wasn’t that bad was it?]

[Oh, sweetheart.]

•

“I know you’re not really flirtatious by nature,” Chris tells him over FaceTime later, his voice smooth and almost consoling, “so I can see how you might have misunderstood the tone of what you wrote. Especially in your second language.”

Phichit pouts at him. “What’s it up to now?”

Chris’s screen freezes for a moment as he switches apps, and when he comes back, he’s laughing. “You don’t want to know,” he tells Phichit fondly.

“…Oops?”

“You might want to save writing to—or about—each other on social media until you’re ready to make your relationship public,” Chris says. He tips his glasses lower on his nose and gives Phichit his sultry teacher look. “Can you restrain yourself, mon vilain?”

Arthur squirms against Phichit’s foot, squeaking in what sounds suspiciously like cackling.

“Yes,” Phichit says, sullen. “…Tell me what it’s up to.”

“Two thousand six hundred and forty-two.”

“What? _Only?_ ”

•

When Seung-gil reaches out, it isn’t through text like Phichit is expecting. He gapes a little at his phone on the counter beside his cutting board, frozen as he takes in Seung-gil’s name and a screenshot from the dance video that still features in Phichit’s nicer dreams, then quickly grabs for it with his free hand.

“Hey!” he says, beaming. “Congratulations!”

Seung-gil’s side of things is quiet enough that Phichit can hear the sheets of the hotel bed shifting underneath him. “Not done yet,” he says, but there’s a strong thread of something in his voice. Something bright.

Phichit abandons his block of half-cut tofu and shuts off the burner on his way to the living room where he can concentrate. “You were great, though!” he insists, tucking himself onto the sofa in a pool of morning sunlight.

“Thank you.”

Phichit switches the phone to speaker and places it on his table, using his newly freed arms to hug one of his fluffier pillows. “You never answered my messages,” he teases. “Did you call to avoid them?”

“You wrote too many,” Seung-gil says. It sounds like rolled eyes are implied.

“Limit support to doge memes, got it.”

“Yes, okay,” Seung-gil says easily.

Phichit laughs, half into the pillow. “I think I was too enthusiastic on Twitter,” he confesses. “I got excited.”

The noise Seung-gil makes is barely audible, but unmistakably amused. “I saw.”

Phichit studies his tone with keen interest and ventures, “You’re not upset?”

Seung-gil says, “No.” There’s a long pause, then: “It was cute.”

Hearing it out loud, in that unmistakably affectionate tone, does something damaging to Phichit’s essential brain functions. That’s the reasoning he’s going with to explain the noise he makes. When Seung-gil laughs, less restrained, the nonessential ones disconnect as well.

“Ngk,” he replies.

They move along to other lighter subjects, steering around Seung-gil’s upcoming free skate and his future with or without Min-so, and Phichit counts the call as a victory in itself when Seung-gil bids him goodnight sounding legitimately sleepy and content.

•

When Phichit dares to check Twitter again, it’s well past midnight in North America and the tweet’s progress has slowed down. If he’s honest, he still doesn’t see where he might have gone overboard.

[Watching @seunggillee evolve as a skater is like seeing typewriter text change into the strokes of a calligraphy brush~ #skateamerica]

It’s just the truth, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let’s play a game! Whoever guesses how many chapters this is gonna end up as gets a ficlet of their choice. \:D/
> 
> EDIT: Pssst, to win, your guess has to be one number, not a range. ;)


	9. Chapter 9

Minutes before the men's singles free skate programs are about to begin, Phichit’s father shows up at the front door with a winning smile and homemade steamed banana cake. "I thought we could have breakfast together!" he announces, and that's how Phichit’s lonely solo viewing turns into a party of two. 

His father toes off his shoes in the entryway and shuffles into the slippers Phichit never wears but rather keeps by the door in case of sudden appearances by relatives who care more about indoor-slipper-wearing.

Sure enough, his father zeroes in on Phichit's feet on his way to the living room and clicks his tongue. “You’re going to get sick,” he says. "Go put socks on."

Phichit gives the ceiling a wry look and closes the front door. By the time he’s turned around, his father has already staked a spot on the sofa and has the container in his lap. “Oh, is the broadcast about to start?” his father asks, too innocently.

“Papa, are you trying to do reconnaissance?” Phichit asks, hands on his hips.

His father opens his eyes wide and flattens a hand over his chest. “Phichit, my gift, you make me sound like a _spy_.” He peels off the container's lid and gestures emphatically to the cake squares inside, each one lovingly garnished with coconut shavings. “I make my son, my gold-winning champion child, his favorite dessert while he’s in the country, just to show him how _proud_ his father is, and I’m _accused_ of—”

“Okay, okay, okay, okay, okay.”

“—as if a parent cannot simply _give_! Oh, no, it must surely be some kind of _nefarious_ plot!”

“Pa _pa!_ ”

“All I wanted was to—what?”

Phichit points to the television screen with an earnest noise. “It’s _starting_.” However uncanny his father’s timing may be—and however terrible he is at acting—there are priorities to be considered here more important than protecting the details of his love life.

His father holds his hands up and takes a seat on the far end of the sofa. “Okay, okay. Then go get us some napkins, yes? Do you have wet wipes? I like the wet wipes for my fingers.”

Phichit sighs and follows the path of least resistance to the kitchen, where he keeps a drawer full of individually-wrapped wet wipes specifically for his father. When he's returned to the sofa, his father tells him about the Australian tourist lady on the BTS who smelled his homemade Khanom Gluay and asked if he was a chef.

“Well, they do _look_ professional,” Phichit says. The last time he posted a photo of them on Instagram, he got a remarkable number of likes.

His father nudges him with a playful grin. “And they taste even better, yes?”

Phichit answers that by taking a zealous bite from the cake square in his hand. As coconut shavings pour onto the pillow, Phichit's father laughs and opens the first wet wipes packet of the day.

Between both parents, Phichit's father struggles more with the sport's intricacies, but he's always seemed to enjoy the pageantry aspect more than Phichit's mother does. Twenty minutes into the competition, Phichit’s father attempts JJ’s pose and gets it backwards, but he looks so cheerful that Phichit can’t bring himself to correct him. He applauds instead, resigned to accepting his father's crush on JJ.

When the stream inevitably crashes during a commercial break, Phichit rushes over to his laptop to address the problem. The sudden silence in the room sends an anticipatory shiver up Phichit's neck, but he isn't fully expecting it when his father asks, “So, your mama and I are wondering about Seung-gil.”

Phichit panics and tries to strategize, peering over his shoulder with what he hopes is utter nonchalance. “What about him?” he asks.

His father slants his eyebrows low and scrunches his mouth, unimpressed. “Phichit,” he says.

“Papa,” Phichit acknowledges.

There’s a smooth moment of perfectly balanced stubbornness on both sides, and then, inevitably, Phichit feels the guilt start to set in.

He can’t hold his parents’ curiosity against them, not when he’s never really dated or even showed interest in anyone before. It’s not that his parents _can’t ever know_ , either. After all, his mother has just as many social media accounts as Phichit does, and she follows him on all of them. She _already_ knows, in all likelihood. But the idea of talking about it, especially when he and Seung-gil haven’t even had much time together in person as a…couple…it seems like a step too tall for such a fledgling relationship.

Now, how to say all that in a way that won’t hurt his father’s feelings?

As Phichit takes a breath, the stream kicks in and Phichit's least favorite of the commentators announces, “Defending his top spot! Viktor Nikiforov!”

Phichit's father flails his arms at his son. “Ah, come sit, Phichit, come sit!”

With a grin, Phichit lowers the lid of his laptop and launches himself back onto the sofa. He peers at his father as he picks up another cake to nibble on, but his father only hums, focused on the screen. Barely ten seconds later, he hands Phichit another wet wipe packet for the coconut raining onto his lap.

“It’s a little unfair to the rest of the skaters, isn’t it?” his father asks, pointing to the screen. “These people.”

On cue, one of the commentators says, “It’s just an incredible time to be alive, isn’t it, seeing art like this taking life on the ice.”

Phichit smiles behind his cake. “I think we’re all used to it,” he says. “And it’s…well. It’s true. Look at him.”

His father waves his hand in a wide, imperious arc. “My son is an artist, too.” He hauls Phichit across the sofa by the neck and kisses the top of his head with a loud smack.

Phichit giggles so hard he snorts. “Papa, you’re getting coconut in my hair.”

“So what! It smells nice!”

When Seung-gil finally has his turn, the cakes are all devoured and his father is in the kitchen on the phone with a client. Phichit thinks of calling his father back in, but at the last second, he decides against it. He has no more cake to hide his reactions, and clinging to Hamtaro will only call up a fresh batch of questions he can't bring himself to answer yet.

Seconds later, watching Seung-gil drag his hands down his stomach as he coasts across the ice to his starting position, Phichit congratulates himself on making the right decision.

Seung-gil’s costumes have always leaned more to the embellished side of the scale, but his free skate costume this season is perhaps the most extravagant thing Phichit's ever seen him in. The loose chiffon sleeves hang wide from his elbows, dyed lavender and studded with gold sequins, and the entire torso of his costume is soft, sunrise pastels and skin-tight. The color gradually fades to black at his waist, which also happens to be where his costume becomes practically lascivious. Phichit is stunned he hasn’t yet heard a judge comment on docking points for such blatant indecency.

Then again, if they’ve left Chris alone….

Without actually deciding to, Phichit holds his breath for the first thirty seconds of Seung-gil’s performance.

“He's really captured this sense—this powerful aura, almost?—somewhere beyond the masculine and feminine,” a commentator says. “It’s not something we're used to seeing from Seung-gil, but he seems quite comfortable.”

Phichit agrees. He unlocks his phone and opens the camera, struggling to keep his eyes on the television screen.

"I love the little braids he's got pinned there above his ears," says Phichit's least favorite commentator.

“Ah, he’s going into his first jump here—”

Phichit takes a snapshot just as Seung-gil lands. The commentators offer unanimous praise, and Phichit smiles as he sends the shot to Seung-gil along with an animated stamp of a hamster weeping with joy, surrounded by hearts.

“He’s really picked up the energy recently!” one of the commentators says. “I wouldn’t have called him one-note before, but he definitely needed something else—something to fill out the dimensions of his—”

Phichit makes a rude noise and, grateful that English is only his second language, easily tunes them out again. He changes his focus to taking snapshots instead. Would it be too obvious of him to make a collage for his next Instagram post?

…Probably.

As the performance continues, Phichit sends them to Seung-gil one by one accompanied by stamps that more or less represent Phichit’s reactions. By the end, he’s sent Seung-gil thirty photos and fifty-two stamps, and the disappointment that he wasn’t there to take better shots in person eats at him, just a little.

When Seung-gil surveys the cheering audience with a hint of disbelief hovering at the side of his mouth, Phichit grips the pillow in his lap so hard he won’t be surprised if a seam rips.

Naturally, his father only walks back into the room when Seung-gil’s score is announced, and Phichit is jumping up with an involuntary cheer and tears in his eyes.

Seung-gil’s place in the GPF is locked.

•

Phichit’s father is not only kind enough not to comment, but he also pretends not to notice when Phichit spends the next ten minutes feverishly scouring Twitter for as many high-quality screencaps of Seung-gil as he can find for his new folder: “I Think I Might Die”.

•

It’s nearly midnight in New York when ‘Read’ shows up under each one of Phichit’s modest cluster of messages. It’s a true and remarkable sign of Phichit’s restraint that he waits to add anything else until Seung-gil responds.

Luckily for Phichit’s nerves, it only takes about six minutes.

[Are you proving that you watched?]

Phichit grins into his forearm. He has yet to get dressed following his post-training shower, and part of him is tempted to share this with Seung-gil just to see how he'd react. He summons up just enough willpower to resist the urge and writes, [Yes. Can I call you?]

[No. I’m about to take a bath. My leg hurts.]

Phichit feels his mouth pull into a pout. He hadn’t anticipated Seung-gil saying no, and now he’s wasted the opportunity to congratulate him the way he deserves. Still, there’s a benefit in dating someone who doesn’t pay attention to the finer details of social niceties. [Fiiiine. Then I’ll congratulate you here! You were fantastic! I watched with my dad.] Then, immediately after that’s sent, he adds, [What’s wrong with your leg?]

[Last quad. Nothing serious. Just sore. Write later.]

Phichit runs his thumb along the side of his phone, breathing out long and slow through his nose. If he’d gone, they could have celebrated together. Probably nothing more exciting than hanging out in the hotel, maybe, or sightseeing with Viktor and Yuuri, but—

But he didn’t. He did the responsible thing. He stayed put.

Phichit sighs against his arm, trying to see this as a good thing. It’s a sign that he’s mature, isn’t it? That he takes his commitment to his sport and craft so seriously that—

Before he can think too hard about it, Phichit writes to Chris, [Would it be crazy for me to fly to Seoul for a few days before the GPF? I mean, it’s in Nagoya, and Japan is right next to Korea, so…]

Never mind that he’s booked a flight to Nagoya already. Never mind that Celestino has a training program for him that he can’t deviate from. Never mind that this is exactly the kind of emotional lunacy he’s been happy _not_ to have to deal with. Never mind that—

Chris writes back. More accurately, he sends Phichit a link to a tweet embedded with a gif of Seung-gil coasting by a creek of hamster plushes and snagging three small ones in one scoop of his hand.

Phichit writes, [GOOD POINT!!] and logs in to his Thai Airways account to change his flight.

•

[Ciao Ciao! I’m gonna visit Seoul for a couple of days!]

[… Is this you asking me or telling me?]

[Telling! ;D I changed my flight just now! I mean, I could still cancel the flight........]

[Please do that.]

[But I’ve already changed it and they made me pay a fee and if I change it again I’ll have to pay another fee! It’s only for two days! 12/3-4! And I’m still gonna arrive in Nagoya on the same date as you! 12/5 at 13:30! I’m even arriving an hour before you! I’m just going to Seoul first! Just for two days! I’ll practice! Seung-gil’s rink is really nice, remember? You could come too! It’ll be great!]

[No, thank you.]

[I'm really sorry!! :(]

[Phichit, please don’t do this again.]

[I won’t!!!!!!!!]

[Send me your flight information.]

[THANK YOU CIAO CIAO. ♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡]

[Just be safe. Both of you.]

[We will!!!!!!]

•

Phichit’s giddy enough that he immediately posts to Twitter, [I LOVE MY COACH] along with his favorite crying gif from Wreck-It Ralph.

(When Celestino retweets it, he knows he’s not in too much trouble.)

•

Seung-gil next writes to him to ask, [When are you arriving in Japan?], so Phichit answers him with a screencap of his flight confirmation.

[Surprise!] he adds. [I thought about just showing up as a surprise but even though I’ve seen photos of your place, I don’t actually know where you live and I’d rather not ask your brother even though he’d probably tell me.] He thumbs the send button before he can think better of it. Seung-gil may have showed up unannounced in France, but he clearly didn’t intend on Phichit _knowing_ he was there.

This might…be…overstepping.

‘Read’.

…

Phichit waits for anything—a reply, a stamp, a chain of ellipses—but after a full three minutes with no response, he starts to chew his lip. He shifts on the chaise in the muted lighting of his favorite massage parlor, knowing he’ll be fixated on this for the whole appointment if Seung-gil doesn’t say anything before it begins.

He’s on the fringe of apologizing when the door to the hallway opens and a woman crows, “Phichit, sweetheart!”

His startled squeak startles the owner, Natthaya, into recoiling a little. “Oh, you poor thing,” she says, covering her grin behind her wrist. “You look so wound-up, what’s the matter?”

He follows her gesture to stand up and slumps toward the rooms in the back. “I want to be single forever,” he tells her, dragging his feet for emphasis.

She takes him by the shoulders and gives them a playful squeeze. “My sweet little ray of sunshine,” she says, warmth infused in every word, “I’ve never believed anything you’ve said less.”

Natthaya’s been more or less his official masseuse since he was seventeen. Overtraining led to a bad case of plantar fasciitis and a week off the ice to deal with the pain. She gradually helped him through it in the months before he left for Detroit, and then she and Celestino wrote messages back and forth on how to avoid a recurrence. The three of them have had lunch together more than once, and every month since Phichit returned to Bangkok, he sees Natthaya at least twice. He’s been telling her just slightly less than he tells Celestino about his progress with Seung-gil.

As he pulls off his vest and T-shirt, she asks him, “That boy isn’t being mean to you, is he?” As she hands him a set of time-softened pajamas, her eyes narrow.

“No, he’s fine,” Phichit sighs. “He just left me hanging after a really important message.” He drapes himself face-down on the table with as much dramatic flair as he can, surprised by how tight his muscles feel despite his agility on the ice earlier this morning.

She pinches his shoulder. “You’re like a statue,” she tells him. “Breathe in. A good, deep, long breath. Good. Now exhale. Slower! Slower. That’s right.”

He’s still thinking of his phone in the basket with his clothes. What if Seung-gil says yes, but doesn’t really want him there? Would he do that? He doesn’t seem like he’d ever say yes and mean no, but—

Natthaya puts pressure on his back and hums. “Not good,” she says, “but better. What did you send him this time? You’re a very new experience for this poor kid, remember. If you push him too much, you might set things back between you two.”

That’s true. And now he feels ridiculous when he says, “I…sent him a flight confirmation? Because I’m going to Seoul to see him? And…I…didn’t ask him first…?”

She’s quiet for a second, her soft palms motionless on his back, then she dissolves into quiet snickers.

Phichit sulks for about five seconds, then turns onto his side to give her a plaintive scowl.

Still smiling, she sighs, “Oh, you sweet, silly boy,” as she wipes a tear from the corner of her eye with her free hand.

“He came to see _me_ ,” he says, sullen, even though he’s already established in his mind that Seung-gil spontaneously showing up to watch a public performance in a foreign country is very different from Phichit impulsively booking a flight to his boyfriend’s country of residence without warning.

Luckily, Natthaya doesn’t seem interested in engaging Phichit in a debate about proper long-distance dating protocols. Instead, she says, “Breathe in. Good. Hold. Now, out. You’re here for an hour without that screen killing your eye nerves. Try not to think about him—can you do that?”

“No,” he murmurs, mournful. He's leagues away, cuddling Seung-gil's husky on the plush give of Seung-gil's carpet, peering up at a beautiful, inscrutable face he's just starting to understand.

“You’d be surprised what you can accomplish when you have no choice,” she tells him, then changes the subject to ask after Phichit’s little fanboy at the rink.

•

When she leaves the room to get him some tea after his massage is finished, Phichit rolls off the table and rescues his phone from the basket.

Seung-gil’s name stands out in the very center of the notifications on Phichit’s lock screen. One glance through his message explains why he took so long to respond.

[I’m on a waiting list for your flight to Nagoya,] he's written. [Are you going to stay with me while you’re here?]

Phichit sits down on the massage table and covers his mouth, hiding his fragile, delighted smile.

He struggles against the faint tremor in his hands as he writes back, [I was going to book an AirBnB….]

‘Read’.

[Are you trying to be polite?]

Phichit’s smile warms. [Yes.]

[Don’t be. Say what you want.]

Natthaya knocks on the door, and when Phichit can’t dredge up an answer right away, she peeks in with a suspicious frown. However he looks makes the lines around her eyes deepen with fondness, and she hums a sweet melody as she sets his tea on the counter by his clothes. “He wrote back?” she guesses.

Phichit flops back onto the table with his phone clutched to his throat, letting a hoarse, incoherent noise serve as confirmation.

•

[I want to stay with you.]

‘Read’.

[Good.]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've been reading along every week, you have been incredibly patient, and I both applaud and thank you for said patience! The next chapter is all them, and some more of those tags will finally come into play. ♡


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Slow Burn becomes Burn. :D/

Back in Detroit, Yuuri would marvel at Phichit’s clothes, often picking up Phichit’s form-fitting, midriff-baring shirts with horror in his eyes. He’d tell their friends in tones of awestruck reverence about Phichit’s morning routine, and how he effortlessly chose perfect outfits in under thirty seconds.

Yuuri only knew that because, of course, Yuuri timed him; Phichit’s record to this day is four seconds, even if Yuuri still claims that Phichit taking off his pajamas and walking into the dorm hallway in his underwear was cheating.

Phichit’s never had the heart to tell Yuuri that he rarely ever actually puts that much thought into things like coordination, color scheme, or even future weather conditions when he selects his clothes. Almost every day of his adult life so far, he’s based his decisions on instinct alone. That he ends up looking cool most of the time is just luck, self-confidence, or a mix of both. It’s certainly not by design.

So it’s not surprising that Yuuri doesn’t understand why Phichit has been frozen in front of his closet for five minutes the night before he’s supposed to fly to Seoul.

At one point, Viktor shows up, places his chin on Yuuri’s shoulder, and asks him something in Russian. Yuuri explains in Japanese, and Viktor says, “Cute!” in English.

Phichit assumes they’re discussing him, so he turns around to face his phone and gives the pair of them a face of pure anguish.

“Why am I stressing about this?” he whines, reaching up to skim his fingers through his hair. “He knows what I look like, he doesn’t care about fashion, so there’s no point to this _and_ I’m losing sleep so I’m going to end up in clothes he won’t even notice looking like a zombie!”

Viktor’s eyes slide to the side, clearly leaving this up to Yuuri to solve.

“You could just go to sleep, then?” Yuuri suggests.

“I can’t do that!” Phichit cries. “I haven’t packed anything!”

“Eh? Not anything?”

“Well. Everything but clothes.”

“Who says you need clothes?” Viktor asks.

Yuuri groans while Phichit lets out a mildly hysterical giggle.

Viktor directs his smile at Yuuri, visibly pleased to have broken through Phichit’s wall of panic for him.

Soon after Phichit turns back to study the contents of his closet, he hears Viktor coo, “ _Yuu_ ri!” and Phichit rolls his eyes at Yuuri thinking he can sneak kisses with someone as smitten and shameless as Viktor.

For maybe the thousandth time, he marks them as #relationshipgoals in his mind and picks through his nicest midriff shirts.

•

He ends up with a brimming suitcase he can’t close, so he hangs up with Yuuri and Viktor and binges some YouTube videos on packing tips. This, naturally, leads him into a vortex of makeup tutorials and then some splurging on eyeliner and lip liner.

It’s just after three in the morning when he puts his phone down on the bedside table, and his last coherent thought is a wild, hopeful notion that he might actually get to see where Seung-gil sleeps on this trip.

•

He boards the plane the following morning wearing gray fitted tartan bottoms and a black tank top under a pastel turquoise sweatshirt, the collar of which he cut off to show off his shoulders and the jut of his clavicle. He’s eighty percent convinced that Seung-gil won’t notice the extensive thought that went into this outfit, and that he stayed up late and gave himself a rough case of the yawns for nothing—but when Phichit sees a guy in business glance sideways at him as Phichit passes his seat, he accepts the confidence boost gladly.

For this last-minute flight, Phichit didn’t bother with business class or any upgrades to his ticket, opting instead for the slight discomfort of economy to keep him awake until they arrive in Seoul. He needs time to process the insane thing he’s decided to do, and he spends every hour fighting his mind into believing that he’s actually on a plane to see the boyfriend he hasn’t quite accepted as part of his current reality.

While the plane taxis to the gate, Phichit leans his head back against his seat and breathes in through his nose. He should have planned something for them to do. Seung-gil isn’t the type to take excursions, let alone come up with some.

They’re going to wind up staring at each other bathed in awkward silence.

Without meaning to, he’s already taken his phone off airplane mode and as his connection service adjusts to his new location, he breathes in slowly.

Everything will be f i n e.

When the deluge of notifications pours in, Seung-gil’s name catches his eye.

[My older brother is going to meet you,] he’s written. [He thinks someone saw you get on the plane in Thailand, so he said he’s made a sign and he’ll drive you here.]

The message immediately after clarifies, [Dae-sung, not Hae-il.]

Phichit releases his breath, horrified and relieved in such equal measure it’s a little disorienting. At least he has more time to calm down, on the one hand, but on the other hand, another family member? This soon?

A tendril of guilt settles in his gut for not even telling his parents yet.

He’s hyper aware of his surroundings as he leaves the plane, but no one gives him so much as a second glance. The passengers are predominantly a mix of Thai, Korean, Malaysian, and a garnish of white Europeans with hiking backpacks too wide to fit smoothly through the aisle. This gives Phichit even more time, and he sends a wave of gratitude into the universe.

Dae-sung is the oldest, he thinks, the responsible married one with two daughters who owns a water purification company. More importantly, he’s the one Seung-gil trusts with Sunja’s health and happiness when he’s out of the country, so he’s definitely Seung-gil’s favorite brother, and someone Phichit probably needs to impress.

Phichit rolls his suitcase into the arrivals lobby and casts a curious eye across signs peppered around the waiting crowd. His nerves settle considerably when he sees a sign written in Thai that reads, “Hae-il is a moron”. The man holding it has already noticed Phichit and gives him a tiny nod of his head to call him over.

Dae-sung, as it turns out, is an older, shorter version of Seung-gil, with more uniform hair and a friendlier smile. There’s a trade of bowing and waî, and then Dae-sung tells Phichit, “Welcome,” in Korean.

“An-nyeong-ha-se-yo,” Phichit says, realizing as he says it that he’s never actually spoken Korean to a Korean person until this moment.

Dae-sung’s smile and lifted eyebrow tell him he did a passable job.

It turns out Dae-sung’s English lives in the same realm as Phichit’s Korean, so their conversation as they walk to Dae-sung’s car is limited to pointing at things and throwing out nouns until one gets a reaction. The car Dae-sung unlocks reeks of money, and Phichit tamps down a powerful impulse to take a quick photo. He’s pretty sure it’s a Bentley.

Dae-sung opens the back and Phichit almost blanches at the thought of his suitcase’s dirty wheels anywhere near the upholstery. To his profound relief, Dae-sung’s next move is to spread a plastic sheet across the bottom. As Phichit hoists his suitcase into the car, Dae-sung says, “For Sunja,” and tugs on the plastic with a wry smirk. “She is many shed.”

Phichit laughs, and the creased laugh lines by Dae-sung’s eyes put his spirit even more at ease.

As they drive toward Seoul, Phichit types in a question on his phone’s new Korean app. The automatic voice delivers a few smooth lines in a sophisticated tone and Dae-sung hums with comprehension.

“Seung-gil is at house,” he says. “He is, ah.” He whirls his hand, brow pinched in thought. “Not good for airport.”

Phichit nods, but that’s not quite something he thought he’d hear as an answer to his question. Maybe the app translated “why didn’t Seung-gil come with you?” incorrectly. What he tells the app to say next is simpler (“your sign was funny”), and it makes Dae-sung laugh.

“Is it funny? What does it say?”

Phichit types it out in Thai, then grins along with Dae-sung once it’s translated.

“Seung-gil writes–ah, wrote sign. He is very study Thai.”

Phichit hides his smile in the sleeve of his sweatshirt, but he’s pretty sure Dae-sung can tell he’s smitten anyway.

“He is brat. Hae-il is punk. They are very loud.”

Phichit’s startled laughter seems to please him.

“I heard them arguing in France,” he admits. He expects to feel a tinge of betrayal, but Dae-sung’s expression is the special degree of exasperated reserved for one’s younger siblings.

He gives Phichit a sidelong look and says with utmost solemnity, “They are drama.”

Phichit decides Dae-sung is his favorite, too.

They wind through Seoul exchanging basic information about each other. Phichit tells Dae-sung about his parents, his hamsters, and his home; Dae-sung reciprocates with his daughters’ ages and the names of Seung-gil’s two younger brothers.

“Jun-young is artist. Dong-hyun is shy.”

“Like Seung-gil?”

Dae-sung makes a noise that can only be accurately described as an incredulous fog horn. “Seung-gil is not shy,” he says, vehement, and after a moment’s consideration, Phichit agrees that “shy” isn’t the best word for any part of Seung-gil’s personality.

“Where do they live?” Phichit asks.

“They are university student,” he says. “Twin, twin.”

From the residential scenery blurring by, Phichit assumes Dae-sung isn’t bothering with a scenic route, and he’s grateful. As much as he worried on the plane and in Bangkok, his nerves have changed to enthusiasm. He’s as eager to see Seung-gil now as he was terrified to step onto the plane this morning.

While he’s searching his Twitter timeline for any mentions of him being at Incheon, the car dips and falls under the shade of a parking garage roof. He sends Seung-gil a quick note to tell him they’ve arrived and Seung-gil replies with a hamster giving a thumbs up.

Phichit wonders if he’s allowed to jump into his arms as a greeting yet.

Dae-sung parks in one of the open guest spots and Phichit retrieves his suitcase from the back. The building’s security requires two separate cards to unlock first the door separating the garage from the building, then the basement lobby from the elevator bank.

Phichit drags his suitcase along the carpeted floor to stand beside Dae-sung, too preoccupied to play a guessing game from which of the six elevators will arrive for them.

Around floor eleven, Dae-sung gives Phichit a sincere smile and says, “Thank you,” in Korean.

When Phichit makes an inquisitive noise, Dae-sung elaborates in English, “He is happy.”

Should such a simple statement make Phichit feel like he’s never known sadness and never will again? Like he’s impervious to everything negative forever?

He doesn’t know how to respond, so he settles for honesty. “I am, too.”

It earns him an even warmer smile.

The car slows at the twenty-second floor, and Dae-sung holds down the “door open” button as Phichit drags his suitcase into the lush hallway.

“Wow,” Phichit says. There are _sconces_.

Even the subtle caramel lighting suggests a level of wealth Phichit has never really been exposed to this directly. His own family has always been a few steps above comfortable, but following Dae-sung down the hallway, he starts to understand the real scope of the gap between how he and Seung-gil were likely raised.

The apartment they stop in front of has the latch meant to lock the door holding it open, and Dae-sung lets out a weary sigh as he pushes through.

Phichit breathes in once, lies to himself that his hands aren’t shaking, and follows.

He’s barely heard Dae-sung’s sharp, “Sunja! _No!_ ” when two husky missile paws make contact with Phichit’s stomach. His back hits the front door with a dull thud, the breath pressed out of him in one go.

Sunja’s wide panting smile and crystal blue eyes are sweet in photos, but Phichit barely notices them now, confronted as he is with the paws prodding his middle and the dancing hind leg claws clacking on the floor and the tongue taking swipes at the air near his hands.

Phichit manages a faint, “Hi, Sunja,” before Dae-sung hauls her off by the collar.

Undeterred, she yips and yowls and looks back at Dae-sung as if she’s telling him, “DID YOU SEE THE NEW PERSON? I DID!”

“This is Sunja,” Dae-sung tells him, then he gives Sunja a firm command that she finally seems to hear. Or at the very least she decides on her own to sit, her tongue lolling out of her wide doggy smile.

Exhaling a laugh, Phichit toes off his shoes and leaves them beside the neat existing row, then crouches down before Sunja and offers her a hand.

He might as well be presenting a Yuuri plush to Viktor for the euphoric reaction he gets. Luckily, Dae-sung has a strong grip on her collar, so the full scale of her adoration is scaled down to licks and a few happy noises.

“You’re even sweeter in person,” Phichit coos.

Dae-sung grins and says, “You have hamster, yes?”

“Yes,” Phichit says. He pulls his soaked hand back and flinches at the sensation of saliva dripping down his knuckles.

Dae-sung chuckles and points to a door halfway down the hallway. “There is soap,” he says.

“Thank you,” Phichit says, and rushes to it.

When he’s cleaned his hands and left the tiny washroom, he hears that Dae-sung and Sunja have moved farther into the apartment, so Phichit leaves his suitcase by the door, mindful of the dirty wheels, and hurries to catch up.

Seeing where Seung-gil lives through glimpses on FaceTime or in the background of shots of Sunja doesn’t even approach the full scope of it all.

“Seung-gil!” Dae-sung calls, and Phichit’s throat squeezes when Seung-gil shouts something muffled back in Korean.

Dae-sung turns to Phichit, rolling his eyes a little. “Do you understand?” he asks.

“‘I’m in the shower’?” Phichit guesses, to Dae-sung’s obvious amusement.

To his left, a door opens and Seung-gil exits a second bathroom wearing too-long black track pants that puddle at his feet and a fading red T-shirt. There’s also a towel around his neck, absorbing the water dripping from his hair, and Phichit wildly reminds himself and his body that Seung-gil’s oldest brother is still here.

Sunja’s tail hammers the floor.

Dae-sung tells Seung-gil something in an annoyed pitch that makes Phichit guess he’s scolding him about the door.

Seung-gil stares back at him, rapidly transforming his placid expression to one ten times more sullen and bored. It’s a subtle change, but Phichit’s learning the details to look for. It’s mostly in his eyes; he hides a lot there.

The two of them continue back and forth two or three more times, then Seung-gil scowls at his brother and turns his head to regard Phichit. “Hi,” he says.

“I’m sorry my brother,” Dae-sung adds.

Phichit licks his lips in attempt to hide a smile. “It’s okay,” he says in rocky Korean.

Seung-gil stares at him a little harder, and Phichit actually feels his face heat up.

Dae-sung releases Sunja, who actually seems content to stay put for now, and crosses the living room toward the front door, keys jangling in his hand. He says something to Seung-gil and then to Phichit, “It is nice meeting you.” He points at his brother with something more smirk than smile. “If he is bad host, please tell Hae-il.”

Phichit decides on a nonverbal response and grins. It’s probably for the best, since Seung-gil throws a few scathing words at his brother’s back as Dae-sung leaves the room.

It feels like twenty minutes stretch between Dae-sung leaving their lines of vision and the front door closing behind him. Phichit becomes starkly aware of his phone in his pocket and only barely resists grabbing it. He keeps his eyes on Seung-gil instead, enjoying his expression despite the chill settling in his stomach. He looks downright menacing, and it’s sort of cute.

Then he meets Phichit’s eyes and his attitude drops like a brick, leaving behind something almost hesitant.

“Hi,” he says again.

Phichit lifts a hand and waves with the tips of his fingers.

Seung-gil exhales a tiny laugh and peers down at his socked feet. When he drags his head back up, he manages to hold Phichit’s gaze while he asks, “Did you bring a suitcase?”

•

There isn’t much of a tour beyond Seung-gil pointing out the kitchen and bathroom as he leads Phichit to the spare bedroom. Phichit decides to tease him for it later as he kneels on the floor and tips his suitcase over on its side. He’s only here for two days, he reminds himself, taking in the queen-sized bed and potted plant in the corner. He already wishes he’d pushed Celestino’s kindness a little further.

Seung-gil folds his arms as he leans on the doorframe, slight and sinuous and far too beautiful for Phichit’s willpower to last much longer.

Sunja darts around her human roommate and leaps onto the guest bed, peering down at Phichit with such excitement it’s contagious.

“Dae-sung’s my favorite brother too,” Phichit tells Seung-gil.

“I’ll tell Hae-il you changed your mind about him,” Seung-gil says.

“You will not!” Phichit laughs. He climbs to his feet and gets just close enough to give Seung-gil’s slim bicep a playful poke.

Seung-gil seems to react on instinct, taking Phichit’s wrist and holding on without giving any indication of what he wants to do with the hand attached.

Phichit waits for a second, then wriggles his finger toward Seung-gil’s neck like he’s going to tickle him.

The look he gets in return is so splendidly dry, Phichit burns some of his anxious energy through a wild giggle.

Then Seung-gil tugs on his wrist and says, “Did you eat?”

Phichit shakes his head, growing almost lightheaded the longer Seung-gil holds onto his wrist. “I was rushing this morning,” he says. “I didn’t sleep much either.”

Seung-gil wrinkles his nose. “You have a competition,” he says. “Don’t lose sleep for me.” He pulls Phichit along into the hallway with such gentle pressure Phichit wonders if Seung-gil thinks of this as holding hands.

Sunja makes a low huff from the bed, likely annoyed at the constant relocating, and opts not to follow them.

The clouds outside have shifted and darkened in the short time since Phichit arrived in Seoul and he has a moment to anticipate a potential day indoors tomorrow.

Emboldened, Phichit takes a chance. He slides his hand higher until he’s pulled it through the loop of Seung-gil’s fingers and in what he guesses is the same instant Seung-gil thinks Phichit wanted him to let go, Phichit slots their fingers together and squeezes.

He doesn’t expect a big reaction, and he doesn’t get one. But Seung-gil does—after a tiny eternity—squeeze back. It only lasts a few seconds, from the hallway to the center of Seung-gil’s modern kitchen, but it’s enough to thrust Phichit’s expectations seventy degrees higher than they were a moment ago.

“My mom gave my brother food,” Seung-gil says. He opens the fridge and stands to the side so Phichit can see countless containers of various size stacked like a perfectly balanced Tetris structure.

“Uh,” Phichit says. He slips out his phone and takes a photo.

Seung-gil’s lips twitch into something close to a grin. “Don’t post that,” he says.

Phichit nods, already editing the photo in a different app. “I’m just making a private album of my Seoul trip,” he says, half kidding.

Seung-gil uncovers some of the containers while Phichit marvels at the sweet, rich smells. He realizes as they dole everything out onto plates how hungry he is.

A few bites into the meal, Phichit uses his free hand to count as he says, “So there’s Dae-sung, Hae-il, you, Dong-young, and Jun-hyun.”

Seung-gil shakes his head and swallows his mouthful of braised lotus root. “No,” he says. “Switch them. Dong-hyun and Jun-young.”

Phichit nods, eyebrows drawing together as he repeats both names under his breath. He tucks his feet around the bottom rung of the stool he’s growing pretty fond of. Seung-gil’s bright, wide kitchen is quite modern, but the furniture that occupies it is antique, heavy, dark, or all of the above.

“No one will test you on my family,” Seung-gil says. “Did Dae-sung say you had to know?”

Phichit says, “No!” with a laugh. “I just want to.”

Seung-gil seems tempted to push the “what the hell for” point, but then he takes a bite of rice instead.

“Your older brothers have been really nice to me,” Phichit says.

“Why wouldn’t they be?” Seung-gil counters, sounding baffled.

Phichit can’t quite bring himself to say, “I thought they’d be as difficult to figure out as you were,” because he knows Seung-gil has tried more with him than anyone else on the circuit. Instead he goes with, “You don’t always say nice things about them,” which is both true and unlikely to hurt his feelings.

“Mm.” Seung-gil taps his metal chopsticks on the rim of his porcelain bowl for a second, clearly gathering his thoughts, then he lifts his chin. “They didn’t like me when we were kids.” He says it without emotion, but Phichit reminds himself that monotone doesn’t mean empty.

“Did they bully you?”

“No. Dae-sung didn’t have interest in any of us. He went to school, he went to the military, he went to work. Hae-il started modeling when he was a baby, and our mom hired a nanny to take him to his jobs. They weren’t interested in me.”

It’s more than Phichit expected him to say, so he waits for a second in case there’s more. When Seung-gil only sips from his soup bowl, giving a very clear aura of being done with his story, Phichit hides his grin behind a clump of rice.

“The day we met,” he says, enjoying Seung-gil’s sudden and rapt focus on him, “you said they took you?”

Seung-gil frowns as if he can’t remember having told Phichit this, then his face clears as he seems to remember the text message he sent months ago explaining his odd behavior at the ice show they both attended.

“They did,” he says. “Our grandmother made them do it. She and my grandfather were going to go with me, but Hae-il and Dae-sung were being lazy at home so she made them instead. She wanted us to be close.”

Phichit recalls the tiny boy who sat next to him that day, pretty and solemn and alone, then takes in the grown man beside him now.

“You’re still really pretty,” Phichit tells him, hoping he’s not misreading their comfort level.

Seung-gil’s more than pale enough that the flush on his cheeks shows up quick. He peeks up at Phichit and then immediately refocuses on his empty soup bowl.

“You’re not gonna thank me?” Phichit teases.

“No,” Seung-gil says. His face is the sweetest dusty shade of pink.

Giddy with success, Phichit lets him off the hook and tucks back into the green stem dish he can’t identify but loves.

“Do you have practice today?” Phichit asks.

“Already finished,” Seung-gil answers. He puts his chopsticks down with a complex frown. “Can I ask you something?”

Phichit’s eyes open wider. “Sure? Yes! Go ahead!”

This must be what he’s feared; he’s taken things between them too far. He shouldn’t have come, and Seung-gil’s uncomfortable with him here. Seung-gil’s family has even gotten involved, maybe trying to keep an eye on the insane kid crazy enough to book a flight to Seoul just so—

“Can I kiss you?”

Phichit hears it. He hears it, absorbs it, and still manages to question it. “Me?” he asks, utterly numb to logic.

Seung-gil takes a second to process, maybe wondering if Phichit misunderstood him somehow, then says, “Didn’t you come here to—”

“No! Not just that!” Phichit cries, then gapes at himself. “Wait!”

Seung-gil hums. “Okay.” He slides off his stool and starts to stack his empty bowls and plates.

“No, really! It wasn’t just for that!”

Seung-gil tilts his head like he can’t work out why Phichit’s panicking. “Okay,” he says again. He takes the empty dishes in front of Phichit as well and carries the lot of them carefully to the sink.

Phichit’s mouth works without his brain giving any helpful input.

Seung-gil runs the water for a few seconds, then he seems to reach a tiny epiphany and turns to face him, “You can have more than one reason for doing something,” he says. “I don’t care that you want to kiss me.”

Phichit has no idea what to say to that.

“You’re dating me, aren’t you?” Seung-gil asks.

Phichit nods with a sheepish, strangled noise.

“And I want to,” Seung-gil continues, over Phichit’s startled squeak, “so…can I kiss you?”

Phichit asks, “Now?” before he can stop himself.

In response, Seung-gil crosses the kitchen to stand beside Phichit’s stool and very deliberately rotates the seat until they’re facing each other. “You flew here from Thailand,” he says.

Phichit knows he would normally respond to that somehow, but he hasn’t felt this shy in actual years, so he covers his face with both hands instead, laughing a little hysterically. He’s going to melt into the surface of the island counter and become one with the marble, he’s just decided.

Then there are fingertips on his knuckles and Phichit lets out an involuntary noise. When he drops his hands, too curious not to look, Seung-gil is closer.

There’s honest curiosity in his eyes, and a hint of amusement hiding in the tilt of his mouth that he’s keeping very well cloaked.

When he feels Seung-gil move close enough that his stomach presses against Phichit’s knees, Phichit says, “You can kiss me,” to prove his mind has been fully restored.

“Good.”

Phichit closes his eyes and realizes with mild panic that his lips feel dry and chapped. If he licks them, maybe—

Lips, warm and smooth and too quick, graze his forehead. Phichit exhales in a burst and can’t orient himself when he opens his eyes. Seung-gil’s regarding him closely, checking his reaction maybe, and when Phichit offers him a disbelieving huff of a laugh, one corner of Seung-gil’s mouth lifts into a now-familiar tiny smile.

It’s easier then to think of this as concrete, as a reality he’s present in, so Phichit rests a forearm on Seung-gil’s shoulder and enjoys the way Seung-gil doesn’t react except to press even closer. Allowing himself the time to enjoy the moment, Phichit reaches up and traces his fingers through the slick damp hair at the back of Seung-gil’s head.

“You look at my hair all the time,” Seung-gil says, and it’s only because of proximity like this that Phichit sees the minute change in expression that means Seung-gil’s teasing him.

“Of course I do,” Phichit tells him. He presses his fingers through hot, wet hair and breathes a little faster when he feels Seung-gil shiver under his arm. “I want to touch it all the time, too.”

Seung-gil’s palms skate down Phichit’s thighs and settle on his knees, applying pressure until Phichit spreads them for him. In one swift motion, Seung-gil’s closed the last bit of distance between them and Phichit’s cinched his free arm around Seung-gil’s back, his other hand tightening in Seung-gil’s hair.

Phichit inhales, shallow and quick, hot everywhere Seung-gil is touching him and darting glances between Seung-gil’s lips and eyes. He spreads his fingers over Seung-gil’s back, stroking slowly down the curve of his spine, just because he can.

He’s expecting it when Seung-gil’s mouth touches his. He’s expecting how it will feel on a purely physical level, and has kissed enough boys to know the general experience.

It’s what it normally is, until Seung-gil exhales and Phichit hears his voice in it and everything about the kiss shifts.

Phichit clenches his hand around the fabric of Seung-gil’s shirt and parts his lips slightly, just enough to take Seung-gil’s lower lip between his own. He curls one leg around Seung-gil’s thigh, then presses the sole of his foot against Seung-gil’s calf.

Either Seung-gil also has experience with this or he’s just naturally suited to it. He angles the kiss a little deeper and drags his palms slowly up Phichit’s thighs, his thumbs catching a little on the inseams.

Phichit’s gasp leads to Seung-gil’s tongue brushing his, fleetingly. Phichit’s hand reflexively tightens in his hair.

He whispers Seung-gil’s name and opens his eyes to find Seung-gil’s closed, and that somehow sends a rush of fire through him. He cinches his arm tighter around Seung-gil’s back and moves his hips closer to the edge of the stool, moving too fast and knowing it and yet taking the risk because he’s waited too long and he can’t remember how to move any slower than this.

He doesn’t know when Seung-gil started to tremble, but he likes it.

Whenever he did this before, with anyone else, his mind was fixed on the present or the immediate future. The scent of the guy, the walk back to his dorm, making sure the next move would be in his court.

Now, he’s thoroughly in the past. The years he let his eyes drag casually over Seung-gil’s body and the months he’s spent learning who he is, this sweet boy no one ever coaxed close enough to touch. Until now.

When Phichit pulls away from the kiss, Seung-gil’s still trembling, his mouth dark and slick, and when his eyes open, his pupils are completely blown.

“Couch?” Phichit whispers.

“Bed,” Seung-gil counters.

Phichit swallows and can’t help kissing him again.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smut! ♪ Smut! ♪ Smut! ♪ Smut! ♪ Smut! ♪
> 
> No, like, seriously: SMUT. There is little else in this chapter. Call it character-building smut. :D

Phichit always hoped that his first time with someone he really cared about would share some things in common with movies. A gorgeous man, charged silence, saccharine music, intense staring, and a rapturous orgasm to finish. Once he started seriously considering sex with Seung-gil, he was convinced he’d get everything but the music.

What actually ends up happening is both wholly surprising and, in retrospect, exactly what he should have been expecting.

•

While Seung-gil sets out food as a distraction for Sunja, Phichit waits in Seung-gil’s bedroom. The moment he walks in, he detects a heavy scent that overpowers both the savory aroma of their lunch as well as the pervasive undercurrent of dog that’s present everywhere in the apartment. Phichit can’t figure out what this new smell is until he spots a massive candle on the bookshelf beside the bed. Most of the tan wax inside is solid except for a few centimeters of liquid at the top, and the closer Phichit gets to it, the stronger the impression of baked cinnamon becomes.

He takes a selfie with the candle, then a wider shot of the bookshelf for future study of the contents.

He can’t quite allow himself to touch the bed without Seung-gil present, so he wanders over to Seung-gil’s desk instead. Two lamps shaped like lanterns sit on either side of the lacquered wood, framing his computer, his phone stand, and a puddle of lime green cloth Phichit recognizes as the headband Seung-gil uses to keep his fringe back. Phichit runs his fingers over a crease in the fabric and feels a thrill at finally knowing the texture of an object he’s seen in video over and over for months. He puts his phone down on top of it.

Above Seung-gil’s desk, there’s a framed newspaper clipping. It’s all in Korean, of course, and while Phichit can work out the phonetic sounds of Hangul, the actual meaning behind what he’s whispering eludes him.

When the door behind him closes, Phichit peeks over his shoulder with a smile.

“What’s this?” he asks.

Seung-gil’s expression shifts from neutral to neutral-with-a-drop-of-nonchalance.

Amused, Phichit turns back to the clipping and resumes reading from the spot he was at when Seung-gil walked in. Amid the noises he’s making with zero comprehension behind them, a lightbulb flashes in his head. He pauses, goes back a sentence, and finds the name that tripped a wire in his mind.

“ _Is this about Hae-il?_ ”

“Yes.” Seung-gil’s voice sounds much closer, so Phichit doesn’t jump (much) when Seung-gil pokes his bare shoulder. Phichit makes a mental memo to maim more of his sweatshirts, since this one seems to be earning him a dramatic increase in physical contact today.

Because he can, and because he’s eager to draw out Seung-gil’s playful side, Phichit turns and catches his finger. Seung-gil’s mouth twitches up, so Phichit tugs on his hand and kisses the smooth middle knuckle to see what that’ll get him.

“I think it’s cute that you’re proud of your brothers,” he says.

Seung-gil’s subtle smile becomes a tiny but flagrant smirk.

Phichit blinks back at him while absentmindedly lacing his fingers through Seung-gil’s.

“What do you think that is?” Seung-gil asks, nodding at the clipping.

Phichit glances at it, but it’s still just text on paper; none of the words apart from Hae-il’s name stand out to him. “Something about his career?” he guesses. “Is it that award he said he won?”

“It’s an article. He drove his friend’s car into a swimming pool in Los Angeles.”

The information soaks in, and then Phichit’s mouth falls open. “Wait,” he says. “You had a _tabloid about your brother framed?_ And then you _hung it over your desk?_ ”

Seung-gil nods, smug and petty and shameless, and Phichit judges himself hard for how adorable he’s finding it.

“You’re—”

The rest of his sentence is lost as Seung-gil squeezes his hand. Whatever he was thinking vanishes as the thick, expectant air between them returns.

Seung-gil slips his fingers free from Phichit’s loose hold and a moment later, Phichit swallows as he feels both of Seung-gil’s arms pull against his back through the two layers of his sweatshirt and tank top. He moves forward a step and glances down to take in the sight of his socked feet and Seung-gil’s bare feet slotted together.

“Phichit?”

He tips his head back up and smiles, sinking his right hand into Seung-gil’s hair and his left up the front of Seung-gil’s T-shirt. At the first touch of Phichit’s palm to the hot stretch of Seung-gil’s stomach, both of them let out stuttered breaths and lock gazes.

“Can I?” Phichit whispers, skimming his hand higher.

Seung-gil nods, his expression stripped bare to pure anticipation and wild nerves.

The raw sound he makes when Phichit’s fingertips graze one of his nipples has Phichit surging in to kiss him. It’s more urgent than it was in the kitchen, with Seung-gil taking the lead of the kiss while Phichit focuses on tracing around and over his hardening nipples. The shivering and gasping would suggest that Phichit has stumbled on one of Seung-gil’s most erogenous zones early.

Phichit whispers, “Stop,” and Seung-gil does, immediately, his breath tripping out of him as he leans back. His face has gone red and his damp hair is mussed where Phichit’s been gripping at it.

Phichit points his chin at the bed with intent and Seung-gil nods, taking a bracing breath in. Before he can settle himself too much, Phichit ducks in and presses his closed mouth to Seung-gil’s neck, humming with satisfaction at the frantic pulse pounding against his lips.

There’s a moment though, on the bed, the two of them kneeling opposite each other in the center, when Phichit experiences absolute calm. The few times he ever got this far with someone, he’d never bothered to take in details. Hookups happened quick and easy and were thus quickly and easily forgotten.

But Seung-gil, regardless of whether he intended for anything sexual to happen between them, clearly tried to make this a comfortable experience. He hoarded food from his mother, got his brother to chauffeur Phichit here, lit a candle to sweeten the air, and asked before he kissed him. It probably wouldn’t be enough to impress someone like Viktor Nikiforov, but considering the level of awareness Seung-gil usually bothers to exert for others, it’s a lot.

With fondness filling his chest, Phichit pokes Seung-gil’s nose and says, “It’s been a long time since I’ve done anything like this with someone,” he admits.

Seung-gil pulls a pained face, but Phichit can’t figure out if it’s directed at the tiny nose assault, the implication that he should reciprocate with his own experience, or something else entirely.

“I…don’t have anything,” Seung-gil forces out.

Phichit waits for clarification, but there doesn’t seem to be any on the way. “What, like STDs?” he asks.

Seung-gil stares at him, just as bewildered as Phichit thought he’d be, and says, “I don’t have STDs,” with _very_ carefully pronounced syllables.

“Because you’ve never had sex?” Phichit presses.

Seung-gil’s nose creases with annoyance. “Yes,” he says.

Phichit leans close and kisses his cheek in a semblance of apology, because even though he finds Seung-gil’s exasperation entertaining, he doesn’t actually want to hurt his pride. “I have,” he says. “But don’t worry! I got checked out before I came here. I was ninety-nine percent sure I was clean, and it’s been years, and I’ve only done oral anyway, so I didn’t really have to, but—I really didn’t plan on this, by the way! I just wanted to be with you alone for a while, honestly. But yeah, my coach gave me this really unnecessary Talk after training, because I think he thinks we’ve already had sex—and he didn’t know the word for—u-urethra? I think it’s urethra—in English, and neither did I. We had to look it up, and that led to some _really_ gross photos of—”

“I don’t have _condoms_ ,” Seung-gil interrupts. His eyes are a little glazed, hinting at an overload of second language information.

“Oh,” Phichit says. “Neither do I. …Because I didn’t plan on this.” He wants that made painfully clear.

Seung-gil shifts his weight from one heel to the other, his emotions masked. “I almost…ordered some,” he says, halting halfway into the sentence. “There were so many types. The reviews were mixed. I didn’t want to ask you—or, I didn’t want to ask _anyone_. What to buy. A recommendation. Then—I thought you wouldn’t want to. With me.” He opens his mouth to add more, then seems to decide against it and studies his knees with rapt fascination instead. His whole face is tinged with red.

Phichit can’t help the warmth that floods his voice when he says, “Well, you were wrong there.” He hooks Seung-gil’s pinky with his own and squeezes.

Something almost sheepish crosses Seung-gil’s face. “Good,” he says, quiet and a little shy.

“Is that why you asked if you could kiss me? You didn’t know if I wanted to?”

Seung-gil says, “No,” in a tone of voice that more implies, _Yes, but please shut up._

So Phichit takes mercy on him and changes the subject. “Well, anyway! We can do a lot without condoms. Like oral! Or the, ah, the thighs thing. What’s that called in English? Whatever. We can do a _lot_ of things that’ll feel really—”

There’s a scratch at the door followed by a petulant whine. Seung-gil calls out something, his voice strained but clearly exasperated, and Sunja responds with a ghoulish squawk.

Phichit stares at the door, then Seung-gil.

He says, “Huskies,” as if that’s an explanation.

What follows is an intense debate between dog and human, and Phichit enjoys the realization that while he can’t understand either party, both sides of this conflict are very clear. The Proposition: “I should also be in this room” vs. The Opposition: “You cannot be in this room”.

Ultimately, Sunja gives up, the sound of her claws ticking on the floor fading into the living room. There’s an audible cushioned flop onto the sofa, some more whining, then silence.

Seung-gil clears his throat, says, “Sorry,” and rubs his face with both hands.

Phichit grins and moves closer, bracketing their thighs the way their feet were over by the desk. When Seung-gil doesn’t react, Phichit clamps both thighs around Seung-gil’s left and kisses the back of his right hand.

“We should do this in my country next time,” he says. “Hamsters don’t have the same abandonment hangups as dogs.”

Seung-gil peeks at him between his fingers. “Okay,” he says.

Laughing, Phichit pries his hands away and touches their lips together again, inhaling deeply and catching the myriad scents of Seung-gil’s sweet shampoo, the cinnamon candle, and something fresh and dry and—

“You washed your sheets before I got here, didn’t you?” he asks.

Seung-gil responds with a soft, “Mm,” and moves the strap of Phichit’s tank top to drift kisses over his shoulder and up to his neck.

Phichit strokes through his hair with both hands, the silken feel of it like strands of warm water. “That feels good,” he whispers.

“Take this off,” Seung-gil says, pulling on the sleeve of Phichit’s sweatshirt.

Phichit obliges and tosses it behind him onto the pillow. When he turns his attention back to Seung-gil’s face, he’s delighted to find Seung-gil’s eyes dragging over his torso. He only manages one kiss before Seung-gil’s hands slip underneath his skin-tight tank top and skim it off with one sharp move.

The look this time lasts much longer, and Phichit struggles to stay still under the heat of it.

When Seung-gil licks his thumb and rubs it with deliberate pressure over Phichit’s nipple, sharp pleasure bolts straight to his cock and Phichit lets his head fall back with a guttural moan.

“You did it to me,” Seung-gil murmurs against his neck. “So I thought that meant you liked it, too.”

“ _Yes_ ,” is all Phichit can get out.

Seung-gil licks the pad of his thumb and repeats the motion even more slowly on the other nipple. He watches Phichit’s expression carefully, and the combination of sensation and close observation has Phichit’s cock straining against Seung-gil’s knee. When Seung-gil reaches forward for a third touch, Phichit rushes to cling to Seung-gil’s shoulders, panting against his neck.

“Gi-give me a second,” he manages. “ _Fuck_.” He lets out a breathless giggle; he can’t remember the last time he used that word in English, and _never_ that emphatically.

Seung-gil curls one arm around Phichit’s lower back and scoops his other hand underneath him, hauling Phichit up onto his lap. There’s a brief shuffle of Phichit rearranging his legs, where he braces his hands on Seung-gil’s shoulders and locks his thighs around Seung-gil’s hips.

The first brush of heat between them has both of them squeezing each other tighter.

“I want you inside me,” Phichit pants, his mind a void of fire and urgency. “Not today, I know, but—” He buries his face in Seung-gil’s still-clothed shoulder and adds an emphatic whine when Seung-gil reaches up and pinches one of his nipples hard.

“Fuck,” Phichit gasps. “Stop that. Please. I can’t—”

Seung-gil whispers, “Sorry,” and nuzzles his cheek in the single sweetest gesture he’s ever given Phichit—or maybe anyone. That his erection is pulsing against Phichit’s when he does it only makes it all the more more intimate. When Phichit rocks against him, shivering with need, Seung-gil moans and clenches his hands into fists over Phichit’s back.

“Lie down,” Phichit says. “I want to try something.”

Seung-gil responds by stripping off his shirt at last and flinging it across the room.

Phichit grins and combs Seung-gil’s fringe back to kiss his forehead. “Lie down,” he repeats against his skin.

When Seung-gil obeys, Phichit splays his hands on Seung-gil’s chest, away from his nipples but near enough that he can tell Seung-gil’s remembering how Phichit can make him feel with a few delicate strokes of his fingers. Seated high on Seung-gil’s hips, Phichit takes a long moment to just admire him, dragging his hands down Seung-gil’s stomach to the hem of his track pants and back up again. His skin is smooth everywhere and hard where he’s toned his abdominal muscles.

“ _What?_ ”

Phichit lifts his gaze to Seung-gil’s impatient expression and smiles. “You’re gorgeous,” he says.

Seung-gil doesn’t seem to know what to do with that on an intellectual level, but Phichit feels what it does for him physically. He leans some more of his weight on Seung-gil’s chest and moves his hips, arching his back to feel as much heat as he can from Seung-gil’s cock against his trapped erection. Seung-gil grips his blanket in both fists, his mouth and eyes shut tight.

Amused that Seung-gil seems to think he can go through this with any more dignity than Phichit, Phichit leans down and takes one of his nipples in his mouth, flicking his tongue over it and sucking hard.

The noise Seung-gil makes is so pornographic and obscene, just the memory of it will probably be enough to get him hard in the days or even months that follow.

It’s also the moment when the last of Seung-gil’s patience with Phichit’s pacing runs out. He gives Phichit’s chest an emphatic nudge, and, when Phichit moves off him, he lifts his hips and shoves off his track pants and briefs. Phichit covers a laugh and follows suit with just slightly more self-control. He tosses his pants and socks in the same general direction Seung-gil threw his clothes, noting the dark wet spot on the front with some concern for his laundry situation.

Then Seung-gil’s mouth covers his, and laundry plummets in his priorities.

He feels a glance of hot, wet skin against his stomach and lets out a small gasp. Seung-gil misinterprets and moves back, so Phichit pushes his tongue deeper and curls his fingers around Seung-gil’s cock with clear approval.

As Phichit thumbs the slit and spreads precum over the rest, Seung-gil’s hands settle on Phichit’s hips, then wander to his thighs, and hesitate near the small of his back. Phichit breaks the kiss to whisper, “You can touch me wherever you want.”

He assumes the shuddered breath against his lips is Seung-gil’s response to that, but he still seems indecisive.

So Phichit moves closer and murmurs against his ear, “I’ll tell you something. You’re the only one I’ve ever wanted to have sex with.” He feels Seung-gil’s skeptical huff against his shoulder and sucks Seung-gil’s earlobe until the cock in his hand jerks. “I mean it,” he says. He blows against the shell of Seung-gil’s ear and enjoys the involuntary noise it pulls from him. “The last time I fooled around was in the States, and it didn’t feel anything like this. I didn’t…care about any of them. But I care about you.” He hesitates on the verb because how he feels and what he thinks Seung-gil is ready to hear are vastly different. Besides, Chris has always advised against making brand new emotional declarations during sex. “So…that makes this different. I’ve never wanted anyone like I want you.”

With effort, Phichit draws back just far enough to see Seung-gil’s eyes. He can’t understand the emotion on Seung-gil’s face because he’s never seen it before, and then Seung-gil kisses him and he decides not to focus on it now. The slick sound of their lips meeting and parting throws a shiver through Phichit’s body, and he grips Seung-gil’s cock at the base, moaning appreciatively as Seung-gil sucks on his tongue.

He can’t tell if Seung-gil believes him, but something’s clearly shifted between them, because Seung-gil’s hands finally move with confidence, splaying over his ass and squeezing hard. When he lets go, he leaves one hand on Phichit’s ass and brings the other hand around to curl around Phichit’s slick erection.

Phichit lets out a grateful whimper.

“ _You’re_ gorgeous,” Seung-gil murmurs against his lips, apparently still hung up on Phichit using the word to describe him. He licks his hand in one broad stroke and fists the head of Phichit’s leaking cock.

“Nn, _ah_ , _Seung-gil_.”

“Mm?”

And _oh_. Just his _voice_ , to say nothing of the scent of his body and the gleam of his roughly-kissed mouth and the wet sounds of the handjob driving him too close to the edge—

“Wait. _Wait._ Let-let me suck you.”

Seung-gil kisses his cheek, maybe recognizing how strained Phichit’s voice has gotten. “Okay,” he says. “Lie down.”

Phichit doesn’t hesitate, even though this doesn’t seem like a comfortable position for blowing him. When he’s on his back, Seung-gil settles between his thighs and grips Phichit’s erection, licking over the tip with rapt fascination.

“Wait,” Phichit whines, sitting halfway up and delving a hand into Seung-gil’s sweat-damp hair. “Stop—I meant—”

“I know,” Seung-gil says, peering up at him through his hair with precum smeared on his lips and oh, _wow_ , is that ever going to feature in Phichit’s memory. “I thought…we could both do it.”

Phichit stares at him. “This is your _first time?_ ” he squeaks.

Seung-gil nods. “I look at a lot of porn,” he says. Then, after he’s licked his lips and brushed his hair out of his face, he adds, “Have you done 69?”

Phichit drops onto his back and covers his face with his forearms and groans. “I’m going to die,” he announces. “You’re the cutest person alive and I can’t handle it.”

“I’m not cute,” Seung-gil says. “I want to suck you too.” He sounds almost petulant, which doesn’t help his Not Cute platform.

Phichit takes one arm off his face to wave his hand in surrender. “Fine, fine! Turn around!”

He admits to himself that he really should have learned by now not to assume anything about his boyfriend.

Seung-gil sucks at Phichit’s cock with singleminded focus. There isn’t much variation beyond simple up-and-down, but it feels nice enough for now, so Phichit gives him a soft hum of encouragement.

Phichit decides to experiment and trails his blunt fingernails up the backs of Seung-gil’s thighs and into the crease of his ass. He only grazes the hole, but Seung-gil’s reaction is vivid. He moans around Phichit’s cock and then takes it deeper, almost to the back of his throat. Of course he chokes and quickly backs off, but then he tries again, apparently determined to master deep-throating on his first time 69ing.

Phichit steadies Seung-gil’s erection in one hand and lifts off to say, “You don’t have to go that deep!”

Seung-gil hums through his nose and otherwise completely ignores him.

Phichit rolls his eyes, amused, and hooks his arm around Seung-gil’s lower back to urge him down lower, taking another a few careful centimeters into his mouth. He rocks his head up and back, pushing precum up Seung-gil’s shaft with his lips and then slurping down to the tip where he focuses on teasing the slit with the tip of his tongue.

The desperate sounds Seung-gil’s making around his cock are nearly enough to finish Phichit off. Then Seung-gil’s fingertips trace curious lines across his perineum, and Phichit only manages an urgent cry of warning before his orgasm engulfs him.

Still trembling, he turns and winces at the streaks of cum on Seung-gil’s mouth and neck. “I’m so sorry,” he says. “Should I—”

Seung-gil wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, then leans in to kiss Phichit’s cheek. He says, “Touch me there again?” his voice quiet.

Phichit smiles and rests his forehead on Seung-gil’s, enjoying both the relief and the rush of his heart for a long moment before he says, “Okay.”

He ends up sucking Seung-gil to orgasm while massaging his balls and then pressing one saliva-soaked fingertip into him.

He runs his tongue through the thick gush that follows, but to his relief, the taste isn’t what he remembers of the few blowjobs he gave in the States. There, he’d experienced a range of flavors from “watery and bitter” to “thick and actually terrible”. He wasn’t expecting anything special from Seung-gil either, considering his diet, but he’s surprised to find he likes what coats his tongue. He makes sure to lock gazes with Seung-gil when he swallows.

He’s proud of the noise it gets him.

•

Following separate showers, a change of sheets on the bed, and a few minutes of apologizing to Sunja via bacon treats, Phichit and Seung-gil reconvene on the sofa in the living room. The atmosphere between them feels irrevocably changed, but Phichit can’t quite sense how much is different now.

He only hesitates for a moment before he asks, “Can I still touch you?”

Seung-gil stares at him like he’s asked to borrow a chainsaw. “Yes,” he says, flat.

Phichit beams and clears the cushion-wide space between them. He pretends not to see Seung-gil still giving him an extremely judgmental look as he slings both arms around his waist and nuzzles into his neck.

“This is normal now?” Seung-gil asks.

Phichit kisses his jaw. “We just 69’d in your bedroom and we’ve barely started going out,” he says. “I’m happy and I need cuddles.”

He isn’t expecting Seung-gil’s hand on the back of his neck, nor lips against the bridge of his nose. “I didn’t say it’s bad,” Seung-gil tells him.

Phichit feels heat behind his eyes and scrunches his nose against the tide of emotion rising in him. He studies Seung-gil’s expression and finds it more open than usual, soft and relaxed. Phichit reminds himself of the “barely started going out” part of what he just said and limits himself to another kiss, sighing when Seung-gil curls an arm around his back and holds him closer.

“You’re amazing, by the way,” Phichit tells him, letting his voice match the look on his boyfriend’s face. “Best orgasm I’ve ever had. Best kisses, too.”

Seung-gil’s lips quirk in an inarguably pleased smile. It’s definitely not the expression Phichit’s expecting to be paired with the next words that leave his mouth. “Better than Tae-woo?”

Phichit can’t read his tone, so he says, “Much better. You knew about that?”

Seung-gil takes a strand of Phichit’s hair between his fingers and looks at it as he says, “He talked about what you did together.” Then, with a suspicious lack of emotion, he adds, “He knew I liked you.”

Phichit’s smile is slow but wide. “You did? How long? Seung-gil! How long have you liked me?” He shakes his arm a little, laughing with pure joy.

To his absolute astonishment, Seung-gil releases his hair and hides his face in Phichit’s neck.

“Tell me!”

“No.”

“Seung-gil, come on! I swallowed!”

“…”


	12. Chapter 12

He’s dozing on Seung-gil’s shoulder when his stomach makes its first complaint. His body has always been an aggressive burning machine, something Yuuri often sighed over in college, and he’s accustomed to snacking regularly. Luckily, the sound is quiet enough that Seung-gil doesn’t seem to hear, so Phichit opts to ignore it. The vanishing hours they have together before they have to leave for the GPF make this rare bout of cuddling something precious that Phichit intends to stretch out for as long as he can. There’s been no talk yet of when they’ll get to see each other like this again. He hasn’t even been here for half a day, but it feels like much longer.

He rubs the bridge of his nose up and down Seung-gil’s neck as the TV plays some variety show he’s 90% sure Seung-gil isn’t watching either. Phichit assumes it’s only on to give them a neutral direction to look in. Seung-gil’s fingers occasionally tighten on Phichit’s hip, and Phichit takes that as permission to slide his legs a little farther across his lap. Despite the rapid pace they took in the bedroom, this position required careful, measured steps. He’s just pressed his lips to Seung-gil’s pulse when his stomach keens again, and Seung-gil turns his head to meet his eyes.

The two of them exchange secretive, small grins.

It’s almost four o’clock, and the sun is sinking fast toward the horizon. Phichit wonders aloud about the food delivery system in Seoul, and Seung-gil makes equally interested noises, so they wind up ordering fried garlic soy chicken from a shop a few blocks away. They use the interim thirty minutes before it arrives to heat up some side dishes from Seung-gil’s mother.

There isn’t much to microwaving, so Phichit focuses more on Seung-gil. He’s back in the clothes he was wearing before, and Phichit admires how they flatter the body he now knows intimately. In his own Post Orgasm Haze, Phichit felt extraordinarily sexy, so he chose to change into one of his slimmest-fitting black crop tops and his white silk pajama bottoms. They’re a little transparent and he wondered if they would seem a little ostentatious even when he packed them, but while Seung-gil hasn’t commented on them yet, he does keep glancing at Phichit’s lower half with intent.

As Phichit reaches for cups from the cabinet, he doesn’t even have to check to know Seung-gil’s eyes are fixed on him. It’s an almost tangible sensation and brand new in how much he’s enjoying it.

With the side dishes on the table and nothing else to prepare, Phichit leans on the island counter with his elbows propped on the edge. He gives Seung-gil, standing by the fridge waiting for the filtered water pitcher to fill, an innocent smile.

“How much time left?” he asks.

“You’re different now,” Seung-gil says. As usual, he doesn’t project much of facial emotion, but Phichit picks up on a hint of surprise in his voice.

He glances down at himself, then back up at Seung-gil. “Still me,” he reports. “Just, y’know, comfortable.”

For whatever reason, this makes Seung-gil exhale what sounds like a laugh. He studies the water pitcher for a long moment, then seems to come to a decision. He crosses the room to stand in front of Phichit and when their eyes meet, Phichit softens his smile considerably.

“Hello,” he says in Korean.

Seung-gil’s lips twitch for just a moment into a clear, shy smile. “Hi,” he says, also in Korean.

Phichit thumbs his jaw, letting the movement guide the rest of his fingers deep into his hair, damp again from the shower, hot near his scalp. Seung-gil moves a little closer, resting his hands on Phichit’s bare sides.

“Thank you for letting me stay with you,” Phichit continues. He’s got maybe five more topical Korean phrases memorized before he runs out and has to start on stuff he’s picked up from kdramas.

When Seung-gil responds, his voice has dropped an octave, and it goes directly to Phichit’s core. He has no idea what Seung-gil just said to him, but he doubts it matters. Seung-gil’s thumbs are moving slowly over his skin, his eyes fixed on Phichit’s, and Phichit doesn’t even try to hide how shallow his breaths have gotten.

Time to jump ahead to kdrama phrases. “Kiss me,” he whispers, and Seung-gil barely lets him finish before he’s covering his mouth and sliding both hands around Phichit’s lower back.

Phichit arches, pressing flush against Seung-gil’s body with a tiny, involuntary noise. Whatever physical wall stood between them before has been since overwhelmed and made completely ineffectual over the last two hours.

Seung-gil’s hand slips beneath the waist of Phichit’s pajama bottoms and under the elastic band of his briefs, palming his ass. Seung-gil touching him so casually has Phichit gripping his slim biceps and navigating a thigh between his legs. As the kiss turns just shy of filthy, Phichit congratulates himself on wearing a thong—most of the laundry-related videos he watched while Seung-gil was in the shower promised that getting stains out of silk is easy, but he’s not tempted to test it.

The soft chime that peals through the apartment doesn’t mean anything to Phichit, but both the occupants have automatic reactions: Sunja with barking, Seung-gil with a hissed curse and a glare in what Phichit assumes is the direction of his apartment’s intercom.

Phichit takes a breath and kisses his cheek. “Making out isn’t time-sensitive,” he whispers in English. He’s not sure about Seung-gil’s expectations, but he fully intends to spend the rest of the day and all of tomorrow mapping every centimeter of Seung-gil’s body with his hands and tongue. They can afford the time to break for food occasionally.

Seung-gil doesn’t seem to understand what he means, but he nods before he leaves the room.

Phichit uses the privacy to adjust himself and replay what just happened a few times. No wonder Celestino wanted him to have condoms. At the time, Phichit dismissed the entire conversation as unnecessary—they hadn’t even kissed yet—but he’s going on his third hour here and he’s already wondering if his hormones will let him leave without performing every kind of sexual act he can think of.

The long-distance aspect of their relationship looms wide and large in his mind.

When Seung-gil returns, he hesitates in the doorway, his eyes fixed on a part of the island counter somewhere next to Phichit.

Behind him, Sunja passes by in a stripe of white and gray, barking with either enthusiasm or warning—Phichit can’t tell.

“Wanna eat in the living room?” Phichit asks, raising his voice over Sunja’s serenade to the delivery person. “We don’t have to eat in here, right?”

Seung-gil meets his eyes and studies him like he’s wondering if there’s some underlying meaning to what Phichit’s saying. “Okay,” he says.

The intercom chimes again. Farther down the hallway, Sunja’s barks become howls.

Seung-gil pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs as he retreats from the kitchen.

Phichit smiles at the floor and folds his arms over his chest, peering down at his navel and wondering for a moment, not for the first time, if he could get away with piercing it. He’d have to do it in summer to give it time to heal. He’s pretty sure Mila had hers—

Seung-gil returns with a large paper bag in his hand and a husky hot on his heels, her tongue lolling out and her tail beating against his leg.

“Dogs are intense,” Phichit observes. Innate consideration draws him to help to unpack the food, but he stays where he is, uncertain he’d survive getting between Sunja and that bag.

“Dogs are intense,” Seung-gil agrees. There’s an unnecessary weight and solemnity to his voice that makes Phichit laugh, and hearing it seems to please Seung-gil.

Phichit wonders if it’s too late to try and count all the times Seung-gil has almost or outright smiled since he arrived.

Chauffeured by Sunja, they move everything out to the living room. Phichit expects her to dive on the plates the moment they’re set down, but she’s better behaved than Phichit has given her credit for. It isn’t until he and Seung-gil actually sit down on the sofa that Sunja drops her head on the glass surface and makes high, mournful sounds through her nose.

Seung-gil doesn’t even bother looking up as he tosses a shred of chicken at her. She catches it in her jaws and swallows in almost the same motion, her tail slicing back and forth.

Phichit gapes. “Wow!” He treats himself to a vision of doing that with Arthur and a sunflower seed—except that he doubts Arthur of Reality would catch it and bow as well as the Arthur of Imagination. Before he can think through it, Phichit’s up and racing back into Seung-gil’s bedroom. He returns with his phone and slides back onto the sofa, bumping Seung-gil’s side.

The look he gets is a mix of many emotions, but mainly confusion and surprise.

Phichit opens his camera and gives Seung-gil a kiss on the cheek. “Do it again?” he requests, going for cute.

It works. Seung-gil waits until Phichit’s got his phone aimed, then tosses the chicken. Sunja repeats her feat of physics-defying eating to Phichit’s encouraging cheer. Sunja seems confused by it, but she’s prioritized the food she’s getting over Phichit’s unusual behavior. As he reviews the footage with delight, Phichit hears Seung-gil take a hesitant breath. The seconds tick by, but he doesn’t say anything.

A glimpse at his face confirms that Seung-gil’s mouth is parted to say something, but he doesn’t seem to know how to say it.

Phichit puts his phone down on the table and moves closer to him. “What’s up?” he asks.

The flush that rises on Seung-gil’s skin promises something adorable, and Phichit’s smile widens.

“Yes?” he murmurs.

“You’re…are you…?”

“Mm?”

“You…are not…you’re not going to post…?”

The wires connect in Phichit’s mind, and he fights to keep smiling. Well. This means they don’t have to have the conversation about going public, that seems clear. He _did_ of course suspect that Seung-gil would be on the side of keeping their privacy intact, but this confirms it. The disappointment still stings, but he _can_ recognize that there are plenty of reasons to keep the exposure of a relationship to a minimum. Phichit manufactures a short bright laugh and says, “No! Of course not!”

Seung-gil receives the answer with an expression almost fully back to blank.

“I mean it!” Phichit says, interpreting that as doubt. “I have self-control sometimes.”

Seung-gil doesn’t even need to react to that to show his skepticism.

Phichit huffs and decides to unveil his whole master plan. “I’ll prove it.” He scrolls through his photos from a few days ago and taps one at random, presenting it to Seung-gil. “I took a bunch of photos that I’m going to post to Instagram while I’m here. They’ll match up with my Twitter feed updates. See, like this one.” He switches over to his Twitter app and enlarges one of his most recent tweets. “I posted about doing yoga with the hamsters, which lines up with this photo—” a switch back to Instagram—“drinking homemade bubble tea at home with the yoga mat unrolled in the background.”

Seung-gil’s eyebrows, easily the most expressive part of his face, show how very emphatically horrified he is by everything Phichit just said to him.

“Social media is a career in itself,” Phichit tells him, winking.

Seung-gil nods once, even though it’s clear he doesn’t agree. Which makes sense; even now, after committing to date one of the savviest social media users on the planet, Seung-gil hasn’t been influenced at all. He still only tweets once a week. Sometimes.

Seung-gil licks his lips like he has more he needs to say, but his gaze moves fitfully and not a sound makes its way past his lips.

Phichit rests his chin on Seung-gil’s shoulder, feels him tense, and backs off completely. “What’s wrong?” he asks. The physical comfort from barely ten minutes ago and every scrap of confidence he showed in the bedroom seems to have vanished.

As Seung-gil tugs his fingers through his fringe and swallows, worry spreads in cold waves through Phichit’s chest.

“Seung-gil?”

“Nothing.” His voice is fraught.

Phichit pulls his legs up onto the sofa and crosses them, facing Seung-gil with a frown. “Please look at me,” he says.

He’s a little surprised by how quickly Seung-gil lifts his eyes from the sauce-smeared chicken on the table to Phichit’s face. The small strides Phichit’s taken in deciphering Seung-gil’s warmer expressions and tones of voice seem insufficient now in the presence of Seung-gil actively trying to shut him out. He’s brought back to how it felt at square one, when he felt like he didn’t know Seung-gil at all.

“What’s bothering you?” he asks. He wishes he knew enough Korean to do this in Seung-gil’s native language.

Seung-gil’s eyebrows drop a little with annoyance. “I said ‘nothing’.”

Phichit folds his arms over his bare stomach. “Tell me,” he says.

“There’s nothing to tell,” Seung-gil says.

“There is! You’re upset.”

“I’m not.”

“You are! Why are you upset?”

“I’m _not_.”

“Seung-gil!”

Silence.

Phichit makes a frustrated sound low in his chest. He remembers the night he met Hae-il in France, listening to the two of them shouting at each other in much louder voices. He doesn’t want to push Seung-gil that far. But Seung-gil’s face is giving him nothing, so he casts a quick glance over the rest of his body and recognizes with hurt that Seung-gil’s poised to leave. His arm is bent to take his weight when he stands, and his hand is splayed on the sofa cushion, his fingers tense.

Still frowning, Phichit forces a long breath and exhales through his nose. “Seung-gil…”

“Stop,” Seung-gil says, sharp.

The force of it doesn’t match with how gently Phichit spoke.

It’s a struggle to keep his hands to himself after so much easy contact, but he doesn’t dare attempt anything now. “Stop what?” he prods.

“No,” Seung-gil says, strained. “I…” He releases a pained noise and rubs his face with both hands. He takes a long time to compose himself, and Phichit marvels with concern at the tremble in his shoulders. When he finally lowers his hands, his whole body seems quieter. “My coach,” he says. “She talks to me like that. I hate it.”

“Oh,” Phichit says. He searches his memory and glances over one or two where she sighed at her skater as if he were literally draining her of her energy. “I’m sorry.” He wets his lips and ventures a soft, “Did you two decide any—”

Seung-gil gives him a curt, pained glare that stops him cold.

“Okay, never mind,” Phichit says, stung. “Sorry.”

They sit in frigid silence for another several seconds. He doesn’t know when Seung-gil muted the television, but there’s a speaker in the upper right corner with a line through it and the variety show continues in a frantic pantomime. At least Seung-gil is still sitting here. Even if Phichit can’t figure out why he’s upset. Even if he can’t fix it, or even trace back to the source of how things got so uncomfortable so fast. Unless…?

Phichit drags his phone across the glass until it’s a familiar weight in his hand, the edges of the case snug against his palm.

Seung-gil’s eyes dart over to it with telling poison.

“This?” Phichit prompts, holding it up. “You were angry I wanted to upload the video of Sunja, so—”

“ _What?_ ” Seung-gil’s voice and face are matching representations of pure, undiluted confusion.

Phichit groans and puts his phone down, then makes a helpless gesture with both arms. “I don’t know!” he says. “I guessed! Am I wrong?”

Seung-gil lowers his eyes, his throat working. There’s a mark on his neck near his shoulder, bruised dark by Phichit’s mouth. They’d been so comfortable with each other barely an hour ago, and now he’s faced with a side of Seung-gil he isn’t sure he can break through to. Feeling a little mutinous, Phichit takes a few breaded cubes of chicken off the plate and pops them into his mouth. If he told anyone else about this, he’s sure they’d side with him. Ji-na would tell him Seung-gil’s always been this way; Mila would laugh; Sara would smile wryly; Supatra would roll her eyes; Chris would congratulate him on the sex and then advise a different partner; and Yuuri…

Yuuri might tell him to be patient.

Beside him, Seung-gil swallows, his shoulders sinking in what Phichit now recognizes as self-doubt. “You’re wrong,” Seung-gil says, quiet. “I wasn’t angry.”

Phichit tries to keep his voice even. “You were upset, though,” he says.

It feels like pushing too much, but Seung-gil glances at him and then his gaze flits away. “You think my English is a problem,” he says.

Phichit opens his mouth, but the left turn into language skills is baffling. “I…don’t know what you’re saying,” he says.

“You think if we had the same native language, it would be easier,” Seung-gil says. “You’re wrong. I’m just like this.” He pauses, then makes a wry face. “Maybe I have better grammar in English.”

It startles a laugh out of Phichit, and the sound seems to make the tension in Seung-gil’s body drain a little.

“Can I please touch you?” Phichit says earnestly.

“I _said yes_ ,” Seung-gil sighs.

Phichit musters a new surge of patience and doesn’t point out that every single part of Seung-gil’s body language until now has been screaming the opposite. He pushes closer and loops his arms around Seung-gil’s back, his left fist gripping his right wrist to hold him tight. He makes a few minute adjustments—resting his chin on Seung-gil’s shoulder, pressing his cheek against the mark he made earlier, leaning against Seung-gil’s chest—and relaxes. He thinks he’s as settled as he can be, but then Seung-gil strokes the back of his hair with one hand and ties his other arm around Phichit’s waist, his fingers gripping his hip and remaining taut.

“I was upset,” Seung-gil says. His voice is pitched low.

Phichit makes a soft, “Mm,” and strokes his back.

“I…don’t like talking.”

“I know,” Phichit murmurs with a wry breath of a laugh.

“Shh.”

“Sorry.”

He chastises himself for teasing when it takes Seung-gil even longer to start again.

“You can post anything you want,” Seung-gil murmurs. “I wasn’t upset about that. I don’t care.”

Phichit frowns, and Seung-gil must be able to feel it, because he squeezes Phichit’s waist. “Really?” Phichit whispers.

“We’ve…I think…we see—are seeing—different—” Seung-gil lets out a frustrated breath that sifts through Phichit’s hair.

Phichit can’t help himself. “You sure it wouldn’t be easier if we had the same native language?” He kisses Seung-gil’s neck to take the bite out of it.

“Maybe,” Seung-gil allows, sounding tired.

“I think this is a little bit my fault, too,” Phichit says. “I know…all of this is new, but we should have talked about a lot of things—like posting stuff online or not. I put it off. I’m sorry.” Seung-gil can’t see his face, and that makes it easier to admit, “I was being selfish. I didn’t want to hear you say you don’t want to date publicly.”

“Why do you think I don’t?” Phichit’s barely drawn a breath when Seung-gil cuts in, “Never mind. I know.”

Phichit smiles and runs his thumb over the bumps of Seung-gil’s spine. The warmth of him is calming.

Still, there’s something in Seung-gil’s voice that sounds off. Across this whole conversation, he’s run the gamut of emotions from annoyed to resigned, but Phichit hasn’t yet heard even a thread of confidence. Not even once. “Do you _want_ to date publicly?” he asks. “And I really mean _want_. I don’t want you to do it for me. I don’t want you to do it because you think I’ll break up with you if you don’t.”

Seung-gil’s eerie stillness tells him he’s struck a nerve.

“Seung-gil,” he says, filling his voice with affection. “I won’t break up with you if you don’t want to date publicly.” The urge to look him in the eye is there, but he suspects they’ve only gotten this much out _because_ there isn’t eye contact. He feels it against his shoulder when Seung-gil swallows, so Phichit works his hand underneath Seung-gil’s shirt and skims his palm in slow strokes over his back. “I mean,” Phichit continues, “I admit I think about what I’d post if you were okay with it. And hiding it will take more work, especially with your fans—”

“That,” Seung-gil blurts. He surprises Phichit by tugging back, though not enough to dislodge Phichit’s hand under his shirt. They’re still close enough that their noses are almost touching. “Them,” he adds, managing to sound both urgent and resigned.

Phichit blinks. “Your fans?”

Seung-gil nods, and the anxiety in his eyes is both new and disturbing. Phichit knows his own fans sometimes lodge complaints against him finding a potential partner, but far more people are in vocal, enthusiastic favor of him dating someone as long as he’s happy. He’s personally seen fans argue down the disgruntled minority, serving the popular, _You’re not a real fan if you try to control him_ and more recently, _Let the boy live!_

He’s never gone through and translated the Korean messages Seung-gil gets, but he’s starting to wonder if maybe he should.

“They followed me to France,” Seung-gil says. “When I watched you skate, one sat next to me. I don’t…like it.” He wrinkles his nose, presumably at himself, and then drops his head onto Phichit’s shoulder. “I hate talking,” he mumbles. “There’s too much.”

Something exhausted in his voice makes Phichit remember an incident in Detroit. He and Yuuri lived at the end of the hallway, far enough away from the dormitory kitchen that Phichit never bothered to wash his dishes. He left them stacked in a dirty pile on his desk every day, and when a clean one was needed, he’d wash only the one. He got used to the smell and often joked that it had become part of their room’s ambiance, like a third roommate. He didn’t find out that this bothered Yuuri until the end of the second semester, when Yuuri washed all the dishes for him while Phichit was showering and then snapped at him the first time Phichit used one and let it sit on his desk overnight.

Until this moment, Phichit always looked back on that whole issue with bewilderment, and even a little exasperation. If Yuuri had _said_ something, he’s always thought, he would have washed them more. If Yuuri had _told_ him that the stale smell made him want to avoid their room sometimes, he would have done something sooner. If Yuuri had bothered to communicate with him, they could have avoided the whole problem.

It hasn’t ever occurred to Phichit until now that Yuuri might have been trying to tell him in other ways, and he just wasn’t paying attention.

Phichit closes his eyes and gathers Seung-gil in closer, kissing the hair that covers his neck. “How about this,” he says.

Seung-gil is quiet for a moment, then he lets out a barely audible, “Mm.”

“How about I ask you questions and you just give me ‘yes’ or ‘no’ answers.”

Seung-gil’s body melts against his, his arms clamped like a vice around Phichit’s waist. “ _Yes_ ,” he says.

Relief and a tiny bit of pride courses through Phichit’s veins. “Okay,” he says, “first question. Ready?”

Seung-gil says, “Yes.”

“Would you say you’ve liked me for more than a year?”

Seung-gil pinches his hip. It’s nothing more than a quick twist of his skin, but it makes Phichit laugh and jump just the same.

“Fiiiine, be stubborn. Okay. Let’s…start big, then. Would you say there are many things bothering you?”

“Yes.”

“More than five?”

Seung-gil doesn’t answer.

“You don’t know?”

“Yes.”

Phichit rubs the tip of his nose over the shell of Seung-gil’s ear. “Are all of them about me?” he teases.

Seung-gil exhales a laugh. “No.” His lips touch the junction of Phichit’s neck and shoulder.

“We’ll focus on me first, then. Do you want to announce that we’re dating?”

Seung-gil pauses, then shifts in his arms, notching his chin farther over Phichit’s shoulder.

“Let’s expand the answers to include ‘I don’t know’. So, ‘yes’, ‘no’, and ‘I don’t know’. Okay?”

“Yes. …I don’t know.”

Phichit pats his hair and earns a wry snort for his trouble. “Are you worried I won’t date you if we have to hide it?” he asks.

Seung-gil’s arm tightens on him instantly, but it takes him another few seconds to say, “Yes.”

Phichit keeps rubbing his thumb over the soft skin of Seung-gil’s back. “Are you worried about what your fans will do if they find out?”

“Yes.”

“Would it embarrass you if I talked about us publicly?”

“…I don’t know. No. Yes.”

“Well, okay. So…I think you’re not comfortable with dating publicly.” He waits for Seung-gil to refute that, but the silence seems like affirmation. “Your family knows, though, right?”

“…Yes and no.”

“Some of them know?”

“Yes.”

“Hae-il and Dae-sung?”

“Yes.”

“…The younger ones?”

“Dong-hyun and Jun-young. No.”

“Your parents?”

“Yes and no.”

“Your mother?”

“Yes.”

“Your father?”

“No.”

“Will you be okay with me telling my parents?”

“Yes.”

“My friends?”

He feels Seung-gil’s face contort against his neck. “How many friends?” Seung-gil asks.

Phichit hides his smile as best he can even though Seung-gil can’t see his face. “Well…some of them already know.”

Seung-gil sighs like he suspected as much. “Who?”

“I think pretty much every skater who knows us,” Phichit admits. “Yuuri and Viktor watched me pack to come here; Sara knows; Mila and Ji-na know, of course; plus Chris has given me advice; I know for sure Guang Hong suspects, so that means Leo does too; also, Georgi comments on it a lot, so that probably means little Yuri—”

Seung-gil’s low noise brings him to a stop.

Phichit presses a kiss to his hair and squeezes him with a long, apologetic noise. “I don’t think JJ knows?” he offers.

It doesn’t sound as comforting out loud as he thought it would be.

When the silence stretches on, Phichit reminds himself that he can’t expect the same level of ease with spoken conversations as he’s come to expect from their written ones. So he gives Seung-gil some time to process. After all, even some of their shortest exchanges in writing have taken place over the course of hours. They established early on that distractions are inevitable, and as such the only real goodbyes they ever exchange are before training or bed. Speaking to each other, as strange as it is to accept after months of communication, is still new. Seung-gil doesn’t usually have the pressure of his boyfriend literally clinging to him waiting for him to answer.

Guiltily, Phichit shifts his weight, wondering if he should let go, but Seung-gil seems to interpret that differently and slides his hand up around the back of Phichit’s neck, holding on with gentle pressure. Phichit stifles the emotional noise in his throat and hugs him harder.

He allows his mind to wander through the number of people he’s involved in the progress of their relationship. He realizes, slowly and sheepishly, how different his experience has been from Seung-gil’s. Where he had a wide array of playful support and fond advice, Seung-gil’s only had Phichit.

When Seung-gil finally decides to speak, Phichit listens carefully.

“I want people to know,” Seung-gil tells him. “The tweet you wrote about me. The calligraphy thing. I liked that.” Phichit guesses he should keep quiet, and after a long, charged pause, Seung-gil continues, “I didn’t expect the stuffed animal to get so much attention. I don’t want my fans to bother you. I don’t want them to follow us. I just want to skate.” He presses his mouth against Phichit’s shoulder, but even though the next words are small, Phichit hears them. “I want to have you.”

Even if Phichit never repeats those five words to another soul, he has them permanently seared into his memory.

Phichit brings his hands up to Seung-gil’s shoulders and eases them apart so he can see Seung-gil’s face. He isn’t surprised when Seung-gil ducks his head, but it gives Phichit the perfect angle to kiss Seung-gil on the forehead.

“Let’s just…avoid the subject for now,” Phichit says, keeping his tone gentle. “We have the GPF in a few days, so…we can be friends, right? In front of people. We don’t have to tell anyone anything.”

Seung-gil pulls his gaze up to meet Phichit’s. He looks a little paler than usual. “But people already know we’re dating,” he says.

“Skaters do, sure. They're not going to tell anyone on social media,” Phichit says. He threads his fingers sinuously through Seung-gil’s hair and enjoys the very slight glaze that comes over Seung-gil’s eyes. “If we avoid each other, that might look suspicious. We’ve been kind of nice to each other, remember? You liked my dance video, I liked yours, you showed up in France with a hamster, I gushed about your performance in New York—we can't really _not_ interact at all at this point. So, sure, if we hang out a few times as friends, some people will talk, but they're going to talk no matter what. As long as we don't confirm it, we're just friends as far as they know. Right?” He adds a wink just to make Seung-gil laugh.

It works, even if it’s only a few breaths through his nose.

“Okay, quick return to ‘yes’, ‘no’, and ‘I don’t know’,” Phichit decides. “Do you want to stop talking and make out?” He tilts his head to one side, a portrait of innocent curiosity.

Seung-gil mutters something under his breath in Korean and pushes Phichit onto his back.

•

For months, Phichit’s thought of his friendship with Yuuri as a path to understanding how Seung-gil’s mind works. But as far as he’s gotten with the kindness and playfulness that works so well with Yuuri, his relationship with Seung-gil needs a stronger foundation. What exactly that needs to be, he doesn’t know yet.

But he’s willing to learn.


	13. Chapter 13

By the time the two of them surface from each other, it’s early evening and the room is lit only by the light of the TV screen on the wall and the glow of Seoul outside Seung-gil’s massive windows. To Phichit’s surprise, they’ve spent the last hour or so doing little more than kiss while stroking indelible patterns over each other’s clothes without saying a word. It never seems to escalate beyond what Phichit is starting to think of as just…warm.

In the privacy of his own mind, Phichit experiences an epiphany that kissing someone doesn’t always need to lead to something else; it can be the goal in itself.

On the heels of this realization, he recognizes that this probably isn’t a new discovery for humanity at large, and he probably shouldn’t tweet about it if he wants to follow through with keeping their relationship quiet. He will, however, mention it to Yuuri if he remembers to—Yuuri and Viktor seem like exactly the kind of couple who would make a discovery like this.

Seung-gil seems to notice the absence of sunlight at the same moment Phichit does, and as he draws back a bit, he licks his bottom lip over the spot Phichit just grazed with his teeth.

“What time do you need to wake up tomorrow?” Phichit asks. As much as he’s enjoyed exploring the world of lips and tongue, he has to admit that lying on his side with one of Seung-gil’s legs nestled between his thighs is making him sleepy. It’s a constant reminder that he’ll be sleeping next to Seung-gil tonight, and it’s been making Phichit’s heart pound with almost incredulous fervor.

He’s probably not going to spend much time in the guest bedroom, and no one who’s going to hear about this trip will be surprised by that.

Seung-gil pushes one arm under his own cheek and drapes the other one over Phichit’s rib cage. “I leave my building at about five,” he says. “I’ll come back here at noon, I think.”

He and Phichit discussed the possibility of Phichit training at Seung-gil’s rink, but Celestino nixed the idea, probably because he doubts Phichit’s ability to stay on task. Phichit thinks he should have felt tempted to defend himself against this unspoken slight against his professionalism, but he couldn’t get too indignant when he gave this trip all of six minutes’ consideration before buying the ticket.

So instead, he’s going to train as best he can in Seung-gil’s apartment. Celestino sent an itinerary so long Phichit might actually still be working through it when Seung-gil gets back.

It’s not completely unheard of for skaters to pull stunts like this, Phichit knows, but they aren’t usually quite to this scale nor directly before the GPF. He also knows almost no other coach would have gone along with this with such patience, but maybe the gold and silver Phichit’s already won this season as well as his otherwise spotless record during his years with Celestino have earned him some flexibility.

…If he doesn’t at least make the podium in Nagoya, though, he’s definitely going to hear an earful.

“You can wake me up,” Phichit tells Seung-gil. “I’ve got a lot to do while you’re gone.”

Seung-gil makes a soft noise of agreement and visibly holds his jaw shut on a yawn.

Phichit reaches up to seek out Seung-gil’s hand on his back and pulls it down between them, lacing their fingers with a satisfied smile. “Glad I’m here?” he presses.

Seung-gil nods, the movement slight since his head is cushioned as it is on his arm. “I was surprised,” he admits. “Min-so says it’s my fault.”

Phichit keeps in a laugh. “Because you’re a bad influence?”

“Mm.” The wry tilt to Seung-gil’s eyebrows elaborates on his feelings about that.

For a tense moment, Phichit wonders if Seung-gil brought up his coach on purpose as a way to lead in to an update on that whole situation, but then Seung-gil closes his eyes and exhales peacefully through his nose.

“I could make the cutest snap of you right now,” Phichit sighs.

“What’s snap?” Seung-gil murmurs, sounding half asleep.

The words make impact and Phichit sits bolt upright, his mouth open in shock. Even after Phichit adds a horrified noise to the reaction, Seung-gil doesn’t respond beyond rolling onto his stomach and grumbling to himself in his own personal language.

•

Naturally, once Seung-gil’s returned from his walk with Sunja, Phichit dedicates the rest of the evening to Snapchat lessons. It boggles his mind to learn that the man actually _has_ an account, but he’s never posted anything to it. That’s almost _worse_ than not knowing what the app is, in Phichit’s eyes. All these years, his boyfriend has let a treasure rot in the depths of his phone, neglected and unlearned. What _savagery_.

As such, Phichit only allows Seung-gil a few seconds in the entryway to toe off his shoes before he steps in and strips off Seung-gil’s jacket for him, pointing to the living room with insistence.

“You’re too comfortable now,” Seung-gil informs him. “It’s scary.”

“Open the app!” Phichit replies cheerfully.

As they take seats opposite each other on the living room carpet, Seung-gil tells Phichit, “I use the app sometimes. I just look at other people’s stories.”

Phichit peers up from his own phone through his fringe. “Like mine?” he asks, raising his eyebrows expectantly.

Seung-gil says, “Only yours,” but there’re a few extra seconds of eye contact that make Phichit suspect he’s being messed with.

He chooses not to engage, like the mature, upstanding athlete he is.

Once Phichit’s had Seung-gil take a few practice videos and photos both with and without filters, they bestow upon Sunja the honor of being the evening’s primary Snapchat star. As a show of gratitude for her patience with them all day, Phichit even makes her her own Instagram page. “I can’t believe she didn’t have one already,” Phichit says, shaking his head. “ _Each_ of my hamsters has one.”

Seung-gil says, “She doesn’t have her own phone either,” in monotone and Phichit struggles not to encourage such sass by laughing.

“Maybe we shouldn’t upload anything to her Instagram page until we’ve announced our relationship,” Phichit says, eyeing the profile he’s just created. Seeing “0 followers” at the top is both nostalgic and repellant.

“No one is going to believe I did it,” Seung-gil says in a tone that makes it clear he agrees.

While Sunja chews at the leg of a plush tiger, Seung-gil practices applying various filters over his faithful furry roommate, and Phichit double-taps his way through his Instagram feed. The room is quiet, peppered with Sunja’s curious noises and Seung-gil’s phone letting loose the odd camera flash. Inhaling slowly, Phichit revels in the domestic atmosphere.

At last, Seung-gil says, “Okay,” and hands his phone over to Phichit.

The video he’s created is a beaming animated cloud vomiting rainbows on Sunja’s head.

Phichit licks his lips to hide his smile. “Wow,” he says. “This is what you want to upload?”

Seung-gil nods, and of course Phichit’s knows he's being messed with by now, but it’s still oddly enjoyable.

“Then I approve,” Phichit says with magnanimous solemnity. “Social media is all about crafting your public image, and I’m sure this will give your fans a precious insight into your per—”

“It’s up.”

Phichit huffs. He’s just persuaded Seung-gil to release his very first Snapchat story into the world, and it’s made bittersweet when he realizes, _I can’t even gloat about this, my crowning achievement_.

Within five minutes, however, Phichit starts getting messages across multiple platforms from people who are correctly assuming he’s behind this. He doesn’t answer any of them, but he does see one on Twitter he can’t resist favoriting.

It says: “seunggil’s first story is cute but it needs more hamsters”.

The person’s next tweet is a screenshot of Phichit’s username among their notifications, and the emphatic sentiment: “AAAAAAAAAHHH!!!”

When Phichit moves across the carpet to show Seung-gil, he’s inordinately pleased to see Seung-gil’s lips take a mild upward curve.

It's a start.

•

At ten thirty, Phichit brushes his teeth in Seung-gil’s bathroom, his eyes sore with exhaustion. To keep himself somewhat alert, he studies the space around him in detail. Everything appears neat at first glance; the bottles on the sink are arranged by size, the surfaces gleam with evidence of recent contact with cleaning products, and Seung-gil’s toothbrush rests off to the side on a chopstick holder shaped like a poodle. It’s only under closer inspection that Phichit notices gray buildup on the drain, a few long strands of black hair on the shower wall, and a fine layer of dust on the tank of the toilet.

Compared to some of his friends’ places, it’s immaculate.

It leads Phichit to wonder how often Seung-gil’s family visits him here, and if their presence has any bearing on his cleanliness. It’s the sort of thing Phichit may learn with time—how much of Seung-gil’s personality is his, and how much was shaped by his family.

When Phichit leaves the bathroom, he’s assaulted by the reality before him of Seung-gil sprawled on the sofa with his arm around Sunja. Both of them have their eyes closed, Sunja’s snout tucked against Seung-gil’s throat.

Phichit considers himself fortunate his phone isn’t in his hand, or else muscle memory would have forced him to take and upload a photo to every social media platform humanity has to offer.

From some quiet and hungry place inside him, Phichit imagines what it’d be like to see something like this every night and come to associate it with “normal”. In Bangkok, his "normal" evenings look and sound very different: English from the YouTubers on his laptop instead of Korean from actors on the television, gentle amber lighting from his paper floor lamps spread all over his apartment instead of stray sources of light spilling out from the bathroom and kitchen. The dissonance tells him he isn’t home, but Seung-gil's presence makes it into something just as soothing.

While Seung-gil takes his turn in the bathroom, Phichit sits with Sunja on the sofa and opens a message from Guang Hong. It contains a photo of Guang Hong and Leo posed in front of a ragged, yellowing poster with THE KING’S SKATER emblazoned across the top in blocky white lettering. Leo’s pulling a scandalized face and pointing at a photoshopped image of Eevee sitting at Arthur’s feet; Guang Hong has one hand over his face and the other pointing at the King, whose actor has been removed and replaced with some white Hollywood face.

Phichit writes, [What have they done to my beautiful franchise!!!] and sends it with a crying hamster stamp.

Leo's in the chat as well and chooses to contribute by sending a laughing red-nosed reindeer stamp.

Guang Hong seems to take Phichit’s captured attention as an opportunity to change the subject.

[okay,] he writes, quickly followed by:  
[tell]  
[the]  
[truth]

Phichit raises his eyebrows and sends an ellipsis.

[Guang Hong saw Chinese fans writing on weibo about seeing you on a plane to Seoul,] Leo explains.

Phichit groans.

[they said they have photos but they won’t show anyone, so no one believes them,] Guang Hong reports. Then, [EXCEPT ME. I BELIEVE!]

[His fans voted him the conductor of the seungchuchu train,] Leo writes, accompanied by a smirking emoji. He proves his claim with fanart of a chibi Guang Hong weeping as he waves a poster with Seung-gil kissing Phichit’s cheek on it.

Phichit saves the art.

[I see you reading these, Phichit!! confirm or deny!!]

Phichit rolls onto his back and holds his phone up over his face with a long, exasperated noise. “Seung-gil!” he calls, drawing his name out into a sad whine.

After a second, the faucet shuts off and Seung-gil returns to the living room, thumbing white foam from the corner of his lips. “Mm?”

As soft as the T-shirt is and as nicely as it frames his body, Phichit’s falling out of love with it already. Seung-gil’s beauty deserves better care than Seung-gil himself is affording it.

Phichit shelves the thought for later and gives him a forlorn face. “Can I tell Guang Hong we’re dating?” he asks.

Seung-gil regards him with utter blankness for a long moment, then says, “Okay,” and pulls out a yoga mat from a bench container against the wall.

The sight of Seung-gil in pajamas about to stretch before bed is enough to derail Phichit from his phone altogether; he only barely registers the screen going dark from lack of use. Seung-gil sits on the mat facing Phichit, his back to the TV screen, and splays his legs out. The bottoms he’s wearing are too long for Phichit to fully appreciate the lines of his muscled legs, but the shape of his quads is clear enough that Phichit can enjoy them even through the fabric. As Seung-gil leans into the open space before him, he peers up at Phichit and asks, “Why did you tell Katsuki and not him?”

Phichit frowns. It’s a fair question. Between Yuuri and Guang Hong, he keeps in touch with Guang Hong more frequently. Guang Hong actually checks his messages with regularity and usually writes back within hours. He also updates on all the same platforms Phichit uses, and he likes and shares a good amount of Phichit’s content with his followers. It would make sense to tell him before Yuuri.

At the heart of it, though, there’s a difference between Phichit’s friendship with Yuuri and his friendship with Guang Hong.

He takes a moment to check in with himself and make sure he really means what he’s about to say. It resonates, so he answers, “Part of it is that Yuuri’s older, I think. Guang Hong isn’t that much younger than us, but he looks up to me in a way Yuuri doesn’t. So…”

Seung-gil watches him in silence, his eyes tracking Phichit’s face so closely Phichit has to wonder what he must look like as he speaks.

“I guess I wanted to know how solid… _we_ are….before I told him.”

Explaining it out loud makes his fuzzy, abstract theory into a stark, embarrassing reality.

In the months leading up to this moment, he’s teased Guang Hong maybe more than is fair, considering it was Guang Hong who first alerted Phichit to Seung-gil commenting on his Instagram. The fact that Guang Hong hasn’t really gotten to experience anything else since gives Phichit a little jolt of guilt.

Seung-gil cranes his head up from the deep stretch he’s holding and gives Phichit a skeptical look. “Tell him,” is all he says.

Phichit chances a smile and replies, “You could help. We could send him a snap.”

Seung-gil’s eyebrows very slowly descend into extremely judgmental territory.

He doesn’t say no.

•

The snap Phichit sends to Guang Hong is a photo he can’t believe Seung-gil let him take: Phichit’s nose barely touches Seung-gil's, and Seung-gil’s eyes are half-lidded with sleepy tolerance. They’re also peering at each other and not the camera, a feat Phichit considers quite the accomplishment considering how uncooperative his selfie stick was being at the time.

The caption across the middle reads, _He’s going to reenact his dance video for me. ;)_

“No, I’m not.”

“That’s what _you_ think.”

“No. I’m not.”

•

Of course, Guang Hong takes a screenshot of the snap, and five seconds after that:

[ARE YOU SERIOUS???? WHEN?????? WHEN???????]

Phichit laughs and writes back, [Off to sleep! Good night!]

[WAITWAITWAIT!] Guang Hong writes. [CAN I TELL LEO? ONLY LEO!]

Phichit sends a thumbs up and an emphatic, [Fine! *Only* Leo!]

[TELL ME MORE TOMORROW????]

[After the GPF!]

[OMG YOU’RE KILLING ME HERE PHICHIT!!!]

Seung-gil peers over his shoulder with something like alarm in his eyes. When he sees Phichit watching his reaction, he murmurs, “Why do people care?” The plaintive note in his voice speaks to an adolescence of people thirsting for secrets he didn't have and wouldn't have given even if he did.

Phichit strokes his jaw and kisses his temple. “Depends on the person," he says. "I think Guang Hong just enjoys hearing all the stories he can find in the world." And, because he can't resist, he adds, "He's also a big fan of me dating you."

To Phichit's amusement, that only seems to baffle him more.

•

It isn't until they’re facing each other from opposite sides of Seung-gil’s bed that Phichit shivers and notices the temperature in the apartment has dropped significantly. He glances around, suspecting a glacier has snuck into the room, and wonders aloud, “Why is it so cold?”

Never mind that it’s December in Seoul.

Seung-gil spends a few seconds taking in the question, then tilts his head. “You sleep with the heat on?” he interprets.

Phichit nods, his eyes wide with horror. “You don’t?” he squeaks.

Seung-gil shakes his head and gestures at something on his bed. “I use this,” he says.

 _Unless he’s pointing at a bonfire under the blankets, I’m not impressed_ Phichit thinks with vehement disapproval.

It turns out Seung-gil sleeps underneath an electric blanket, usually with Sunja either at the foot of the bed or cuddled against his back. Protecting him, maybe. It seems like a canine instinct, and Sunja certainly isn’t what Phichit would call a shy dog.

While gooseflesh breaks across Phichit’s bare midriff, Sunja races into the room and vaults onto the bed. She performs a tight circle at the foot and then flops without grace onto her side.

Seung-gil gives up on waiting for Phichit to say something and slides underneath the blanket. “Try it,” he says.

Phichit gives him a stern look. “If I have to skate with a runny nose, Lee Seung-gil, I will pour ramen in your hair,” he promises.

Seung-gil’s eyebrows furrow deep. “Running…nose…?”

“Agh, never mind.”

To his surprise, however, the space beneath Seung-gil’s electric blanket is a den of heat that soaks fast and deep into Phichit’s body. After roughly thirty seconds in the kind of heat he spends entire winters dreaming of, Phichit says, “Maybe this will be okay,” and pretends he doesn’t see Seung-gil emanating a kind of satisfaction that feels suspiciously like preening.

There’s only a single chilling draft when Seung-gil reaches out to switch off the bedside lamp, and then he’s quickly retracting his arm and sealing the gap with a firm tug on the blanket.

The dark adds a new element to the air, a liberating release from the pressures of sighted interaction. Phichit turns onto his side and finds Seung-gil already facing him, their breaths quick and irregular. Phichit's cold fingers brush Seung-gil’s chest over his shirt, and Seung-gil seems to understand it as Phichit beckoning him closer.

They wind up sharing a pillow, nose-to-nose, making a game of synching their breaths and playing their fingertips against each other’s bare skin without intent or promise.

Phichit has a thought before he slips into oblivion, and it’s that he’s definitely not going to use his hotel room in Nagoya.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! Balancing this and my NaNoWriMo novel threw me a little off course this week. Also, I think once I finish this fic, I'm going to write a whole one shot about them snuggling in bed and just being _revoltingly_ adorable. \:D/


	14. Chapter 14

Once, Mila complained on Twitter about how her ex-boyfriend would cling to her while they slept. The way she described it—sweaty, claustrophobic, restricting—made Phichit dread encountering the same thing someday. He’s told more than one person in passing, based on similar horror stories from friends, that he prefers space over snuggling.

Now, though, with Seung-gil’s breath against his neck, Seung-gil’s arm cinched around his waist, and one of Seung-gil’s legs curled around one of his…he can’t imagine not enjoying this. The electric blanket creates a barrier around them that seals in every degree of warmth, and he can’t remember when he last felt so comfortable or content.

Maybe it’s the heat; Mila’s icy Russian blood can’t handle raised temperatures. He makes a note to consult her later on his anthropological theory, grinning into the fragrant mess of Seung-gil’s hair. Mm. Maybe Mila’s boyfriend didn’t smell as nice as Phichit’s does, either. Seung-gil’s hair is fine and shiny, with a honeyed scent tangled into the strands that only those with the most intimate access to him would be able to detect. Phichit knows for a fact it isn’t his shampoo, which means he must have added something extra to it.

Phichit lets his smile broaden as Seung-gil exhales a soft noise through his nose. Between the icy promise of the room around them and the watery gray light of morning seeping in between a narrow slip in the curtains, Phichit could happily stay here all day were it not for the demands of his stomach and bladder. The other part of his body making demands is easily ignored for now, a priority he’s content to put below the task of finding even _more_ heat. Phichit wriggles around until he’s able to press his back against Seung-gil’s chest and luxuriate in his warmth.

Seung-gil makes another, sharper noise and inhales a deep waking breath, squeezing Phichit tighter as he does. Phichit laughs quietly and finds Seung-gil’s hand, guiding it to his mouth.

“Good morning,” he says in Korean.

Seung-gil mutters back something butchered that doesn’t resemble any language Phichit’s ever heard. The kiss he smears on Phichit’s neck implies it might have been a variation on “good morning”. A moment later, Seung-gil seems to realize their legs have been separated and clumsily tries to remedy this.

Phichit wonders who would be more shocked to hear about this side of Seung-gil: Ji-na or Min-so.

It isn’t entirely surprising that Seung-gil essentially kicking him ends in them pushing at each other with stifled snickering until they’re facing each other and Phichit’s still shaking with laughter and both corners of Seung-gil’s mouth are taking a reluctant rise. It’s even less surprising when Seung-gil’s hand undoes the drawstring of Phichit’s pajama bottoms with one tug and then pushes inside to graze over the silken fabric of the thong Phichit’s wearing.

He was already half hard when he woke up, but the glancing touch and the memory of Seung-gil’s mouth around him yesterday has Phichit groaning from his chest and growing harder. He squeezes his eyes shut and recalls as much as he can from yesterday, from their first kiss to their first…everything else.

He has plenty of time to do it, too, since Seung-gil seems content for now just to play. After a few seconds of figuring out what makes Phichit loudest, Seung-gil angles his fingertips _just so_ that his blunt nails leave stripes of sensation on Phichit’s nerves that linger. Once he’s found the ridge of the cockhead, he focuses there with more pressure, framing the shape through his thong.

Phichit’s shivering with anticipation by the time Seung-gil reaches inside and draws Phichit’s cock out so that the head is held flat to his stomach by the hem of his pajama bottoms.

“You’re so sensitive,” Seung-gil whispers. His tone doesn’t give away anything in particular, but his thumb is deliberately slow as it swipes over his cock’s slick slit.

Phichit gasps and grabs onto Seung-gil’s hip, briefly snagging his fingers in the electric blanket and yanking it aside for an unwelcome jet of freezing air.

He squeaks and yanks it back, his eyes wide with horror.

Seung-gil lets out a single laugh, higher pitched than usual and the loudest Phichit’s ever heard from him. For just a second, Seung-gil is a different person entirely, transformed by the lines creasing the corners of his eyes with rare mirth. The smile alone has Phichit mesmerized.

Phichit allows himself to melt a little, hand over his mouth. “Your laugh is adorable,” he says, muffled. This statement is immediately followed by bitter disappointment that he didn’t get it on film.

Seung-gil’s mouth has already settled back into his more common sort-of smile, the tiny one Phichit’s getting used to seeing. “You’re a figure skater,” Seung-gil tells him. “How can you be so weak to cold?”

He glides his fingertips over Phichit’s erection while he talks, dragging all five fingertips down the slick head and back up again. Over and over.

Phichit ignores the comment. He’s _skating_ and _sweating_ and _coursing_ with adrenaline when he’s on the ice. He’s only cold when he stops, so he doesn’t stop if he can help it. Of course, he doesn’t really have the ability to make these salient points right now, though, so he just presses his hand up Seung-gil’s shirt to thumb over the closest nipple.

Seung-gil takes this very kind gesture to be a form of teasing (the very _idea_ ) and reciprocates by slowing his touches and making them less predictable. He reaches up underneath the pillow, inviting another visit of frigid air, and pulls a tube of lube back under the blanket with him.

“We slept on that?” Phichit laughs.

Seung-gil nods. “Didn’t want to have to leave the bed for it in case you wanted to do something.”

Phichit opens his mouth and closes it, struck by the genius and simultaneously amused that Seung-gil actually planned ahead for a morning handjob. Just “in case”.

It’s of course at this point that Phichit worries he’s going to have to pee soon and then, Murphy’s Law so summoned, he has to pee. He gives Seung-gil a maligned groan and props himself up on an elbow, peering past Sunja’s sleeping body at the distance to the door. Seung-gil makes a curious sound, and when Phichit shares his dilemma, Seung-gil appears to have real difficulty with holding back a smirk.

“Guess you have to take care of that first,” he says. He closes the tube under the blanket with a definitive click.

Phichit gives him a sour scowl. “You’re way too amused by—” He catches a glimpse of Seung-gil’s phone screen bright with color as messages arrive in rapid succession. When he notices the time, he says, “I think your alarm didn’t get set correctly.”

Seung-gil turns, then curses in English so forcefully Phichit jumps. In almost the same second, Seung-gil tears out of bed and races to the bathroom, presumably to get ready. Sunja reacts to all this with a mildly interested glance out the door, then a rumbling huff as she puts her head back down between her paws.

•

What follows is twenty minutes of chaos. Seung-gil is out the door inside eight minutes, and Phichit is left standing beside Sunja in the living room, both of them equally wide awake.

Then Sunja produces a long, urgent whine and peers up at Phichit and he realizes that she, too, has to pee.

Taking care of himself is easy, so he rushes into the bathroom to clear that obstacle first, but when he emerges, Sunja is ascending into true levels of panic. She does a dance that under different circumstances would be cute but now just telegraphs how absolutely screwed he is. The largest pet he’s ever owned fits in his hand—he’s _seen_ dogs walked, but to do it for the first time alone with someone else’s dog? He doesn’t even have keys to the apartment, he realizes, let alone the building.

He writes to Seung-gil while Sunja paws at his leg. [I think Sunja needs to be walked. What do I do???] Even if he _had_ keys, if they’re really going to try for a discreet relationship, it probably won’t do them any favors for Phichit to walk Seung-gil’s dog by himself outside Seung-gil’s apartment building early in the morning having obviously just spent the night there.

He doesn’t get a response, and after a minute of Sunja’s whining growing more desperate, Phichit turns to the internet for solutions.

As he’s frantically consulting a YouTube video he remembers once having seen a dog walked in, the doorbell chimes.

Simultaneously, a message from Seung-gil arrives. [Hae-il’s outside. He’ll take care of it. Sorry.]

A glance through the peephole confirms the presence of Seung-gil’s gorgeous, charismatic older brother. Beside Phichit, Sunja whines again, tail between her legs, and by all appearances at the absolute limit of her self-control.

“Welcome to Seoul!” Hae-il says once the door’s been opened. “I’m here to rescue you from getting pissed on.”

Phichit decides in that moment that he’s going to express his gratitude by buying every one of Hae-il’s movies and then flying to Seoul the next time there’s a movie of his in cinemas.

Five minutes later, both dog and brother are gone, and Phichit sags against the wall with a deep sigh.

When he lifts his phone, Seung-gil’s newest messages spill across his screen.

[Just arrived at the rink.]  
[I’m sorry. I set the wrong alarm for this morning.]  
[Did he arrive?]

Phichit types fast. [He did, and they’re gone! How did he get here so soon…????] Now that he’s in less of a panic, he recalls that Hae-il wasn’t even wearing a jacket.

[He lives on the floor above me.]

Phichit lets his head tip back as he absorbs this. Intentionally? It couldn’t have been an accident. Does Dae-sung live here too, then? And the younger twin brothers?

Another chime. [Starting now. I’ll write again in a few hours.]

Phichit sends back a stamp of a hamster giving two peace signs.

He doesn’t have any way of knowing how long Hae-il will be gone with Sunja, so he takes the time to change into exercise clothes. No one will judge him if he works out before he worries about moisturizing his face.

It’s eight o’clock by the time Phichit feels ready for a break. He took the liberty of borrowing Seung-gil’s yoga mat to warm up with his recent favorite yoga positions, then went through the motions of his short program in the living room while his music poured from Seung-gil’s desk speakers in the bedroom.

He’s dripping sweat when the sound of water sloshing nearby draws his attention to the kitchen. He peeks in and finds Sunja absorbing water from her dish at a desperate pace while Hae-il, in designer running clothes, leans on the far wall to stretch out his calves.

Phichit smiles. “Thank you,” he says, pitching his voice just a bit louder to reach over the music.

Hae-il turns and grins back, pulling one arm to his chest and rotating a bit at the waist. “It happens sometimes,” he says. “Did Seung-gil tell you I live upstairs?”

Phichit nods. “Does Dae-sung live here too?”

“No, he has a house. His kids go to school on the other side of the city, or they’d probably live here, too. Our uncle owns the building. We don’t get much of a benefit, just some leftover furniture from the apartments he’s furnished.”

Phichit hums with interest and decides not to ask why Dae-sung is the one who takes care of Sunja if Hae-il lives upstairs. Despite what Seung-gil’s said about Hae-il, it’s probably less to do with Seung-gil’s faith in him and more to do with his probably hectic schedule.

Hae-il takes a bottle of water from the fridge and laughs at the wall of food before him. He says something to himself in Korean, and Phichit recognizes the word for “mother”.

“We had some for dinner,” Phichit says. Sunja arrives at his side and leans on him, peering up at him with earnest ice blue eyes. He strokes between her ears gently, unsure of the pressure he’s supposed to be using.

Hae-il winks at him. “Don’t tell Seung-gil I told you, but our mother is _ecstatic_ he’s dating someone. She and our father wrote him off as a lifelong bachelor when he was six.” He chuckles around the lip of the pet bottle.

This tiny ounce of information, a single offered thread, has Phichit realizing what a treasure trove of information stands before him.

Then Hae-il tips the pet bottle in his direction with a friendly noise. “Want to join me for breakfast? We both need a shower, I think, but afterward. Maybe nine o’clock?”

Phichit nods with an eager smile. “Sounds great!”

•

The security in the building, Phichit finds, is wild; he has to press a special card onto a panel in the elevator in order to get access to Hae-il’s floor.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, Hae-il’s apartment is even nicer than Seung-gil’s. It’s a corner unit with two walls of windows in the living room, and a much sleeker design scheme that screams of professional assistance. Phichit takes a panorama shot of the room while Hae-il’s in the kitchen.

He promptly sends it to Seung-gil along with an awed emoji.

Breakfast consists of bowls of rice with fried eggs on top, something Hae-il calls jigae, and—puzzlingly—soup dumplings.

“Leftovers from dinner,” Hae-il explains with a chuckle. “My mom makes a bunch of things and little side dishes for breakfast, but I don’t have a dishwasher and I hate washing by hand, so I usually don’t eat at home much.”

Phichit thanks him effusively just the same. His stomach feels pinched with hunger and a tiny voice in his head that has echoes of both his father and Celestino tells him, _That’s what happens when you train before eating._

Hae-il also has an island in his kitchen, and the stools are the swiveling, hard-backed kind Phichit’s seen in old movies about New York. Even the refrigerator emits a cool vibe.

They’ve only been eating for about three minutes when Hae-il sends Phichit an impish grin over the yolk-soaked rice tucked between his metal chopsticks. “So,” he says, “how long have you been dating the hermit?”

Phichit laughs. “Since France,” he says.

Hae-il’s eyebrows rocket toward his hairline. “ _Just?_ ” he squawks. His rice drops from his chopsticks.

Phichit nods.

“Is…wait. _He went to France to ask you out?_ ”

“Oh, no. He didn’t even tell me he’d be there. After I saw him in the stands, I asked him out,” Phichit admits. “We were building up to it for months, but—”

“Wait wait wait wait wait _wait_.”

Phichit waits, trying not to give in to the sheepish smile working at his mouth.

Hae-il gives an incredulous-sounding snort, eyebrows tucked high under his fringe. “That little idiot flew to France without telling you and you _asked_ to be in a relationship with him?”

“He also gave me a stuffed hamster,” Phichit says. He would have asked him even if he hadn’t, but Hae-il’s disbelief is too amusing to ruin with the truth.

Hae-il keeps staring, clearly thinking that either Phichit will add more to the story or perhaps just assure Hae-il that he’s joking and there was actually a much saner start to their relationship.

When Phichit does neither, Hae-il’s smile tilts into something almost fond. “I have to admit,” he says, gathering up a new helping of rice and holding it before his mouth, “part of why I invited you up here was to warn you about him.” Once he’s chewed and swallowed, he adds, “I don’t think I have to, though.”

The implicit approval in his voice belies his words. As Phichit adds a splash of hot sauce over his own egg, he remembers the photos of Hae-il protecting Seung-gil from grasping hands. “Did you ever get your glove back?” he asks.

Hae-il’s face takes on a distinctly puzzled air. “My what?”

“Ah! Never mind!” Phichit licks his lips and goes with something that intrigues him more. “Why did you think you had to warn me?”

To his surprise, Hae-il appears to take the question seriously, his forehead knit in thought as he regards the island counter. When he speaks, even his tone is somber. “I don’t have a lot of free time,” he says. “The last time I actually watched Seung-gil skate in person, I think he was still a junior. None of us watch him, though, and that’s just how our family is. They don’t attend my premiers, they don’t go to Dae-sung’s company parties. They mainly go to school events, and once you’ve graduated, weddings. I assume weddings, anyway; most of us went to Dae-sung’s.”

Phichit hangs on every word, realizing these definitely aren’t things he’d hear from Seung-gil directly. He feels almost like he’s invading his privacy except that it’s Hae-il’s family, too, and he’s willingly sharing the information.

“There’s a lot I think my brother hasn’t told you, and that’s for him to share—especially about his coach—but I don’t think you’ll be surprised to hear he’s spent most of his life alone. Not neglected, okay, just…alone.” He pulls his bottom lip under his teeth for a moment, then confesses, “I don’t think he really expected anything else from his life. He’s single-minded, and people admire that for a while, but it makes him a difficult person to spend time with. He doesn’t go out of his way to connect with people; he doesn’t see the point even if they are just as obsessed with skating as he is.”

Phichit resists giving voice to the automatic defenses rising in him because that’s more or less what he himself thought for most of the years he’s known Seung-gil. That Seung-gil’s own brother thinks so must speak volumes to how reclusive Seung-gil truly is.

 _But he’s always been different with me,_ Phichit thinks. When they were younger, Seung-gil would treat Phichit with something resembling deference. Taciturn and solemn, but with a polite undercurrent to his short responses that he didn’t bother with in his interactions with anyone else.

“I guess what I wanted you to know,” Hae-il continues, “and it sounds like you may not even need to hear it, since you don’t seem easily put off…our mother is excited, yes, but she’s also worried. I wasn’t kidding when I said she wrote him off as a hermit. We all did. So I guess…” He makes a helpless gesture with both arms. “Just be aware that he might not understand how a relationship works. I haven’t seen you two together and you won’t be surprised to hear he doesn’t tell _me_ anything about you, so I don’t know how much you’ve already experienced with him. Just…if you run into anything with him that you really don’t understand, you can ask me. I’ll either translate or tell him not to be such an opaque asshole.”

Somehow, this isn’t where Phichit expected their conversation to go. It’s far more than he thought Hae-il would tell him, for one thing. He supposes Hae-il doesn’t have reason to discuss Seung-gil with new people often, considering how few people Seung-gil likely brings into their circle.

His concern makes Phichit’s chest warm.

“Thank you,” he says. Then, because he can’t resist, “You wouldn’t know if he ever mentioned having a crush on anyone when he was a teenager, would you?”

Hae-il scrunches his nose like he can’t tell if Phichit’s serious. “Phichit, as much as he tells me now—and that’s less than what Sunja just told me on our walk together—he only told me half that when we were teenagers.”

Well then. If anyone knew, it’d be one of his brothers. And if anyone who knew would tell Phichit, it’s Hae-il.

“I like you,” Hae-il says, clapping his cup down decisively on the counter. “If things don’t work out with Seung-gil, you might like one of the twins.”

Phichit, who had the misfortune to be swallowing kimchi, chokes.

•

Seung-gil returns at twelve thirty, quiet as a shadow.

He’s two steps into the living room when Phichit catches him in a hug. Seung-gil’s hair is dry and and soft and smells of lime, and his cheek is cool and smooth against Phichit’s.

“What’s this?” Seung-gil asks. His arms lock around Phichit’s waist and tighten slowly. It reads as an instinctively comforting gesture.

Phichit smiles against his shoulder. “A hug,” he murmurs. “Why? Too much?”

He starts to draw back, but Seung-gil’s grip doesn’t budge a centimeter. Their simple embrace lasts six minutes, according to the time on the television screen, and Phichit wonders if anyone in Seung-gil’s life—even Phichit—knows this boy completely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Saw Yuri!!! on Concert today! Shall We Skate was really moving—the whole audience got really into it—and they skipped over Seung-gil’s completely. WHELP. At least they did right by one of my boys. ♡ (They also skipped Emil’s and Minami’s, to be fair.) I’LL DO MY OWN YURICON, BB. RAINBOW FEATHER DUSTERS GALORE.


	15. Chapter 15

The rest of the day is spent in braided activities: eating lunch and discussing their competitors while Phichit’s old programs play on the table before them; cleaning the living room and throwing treats for Sunja while Seung-gil explains the areas of Seoul they can see from his apartment; talking about Hae-il’s last movie while Seung-gil packs his suitcase and Phichit tries to mimic choreography from Seung-gil’s many junior programs on YouTube.

At ten o’clock, it settles in Phichit’s gut that by this time tomorrow they’ll both be in Nagoya. In the same bed, if Phichit gets his way.

He shuts off the TV and peers over his shoulder at the sofa where Seung-gil’s stretched out on his back with Sunja napping on top of him. From Phichit’s vantage spot on the floor, Seung-gil’s clearly scrolling through Instagram (he mainly follows dog accounts—including Makkachin’s) and he looks so serene Phichit almost keeps the question he wants to ask to himself.

His curiosity outweighs his caution.

“Is Min-so going to be on our flight tomorrow?”

It’s clear from the pinch that develops between Seung-gil’s eyebrows that he doesn’t want to discuss her, and Phichit struggles not to push for more information. Min-so doesn’t have Celestino’s warm atmosphere, no, but she’s stuck with Seung-gil for a long time—they can’t really have the cold, informal relationship they seem to, can they? More importantly, she won’t really quit on him, will she?

After a long enough pause that Phichit is judging a slew of new topics to transition to, Seung-gil says, “No.” He punctuates this single word with a narrow glance at Phichit.

Reluctantly, Phichit acknowledges the hint and instead asks Seung-gil how they’re going to slip past Seung-gil’s fans at the airport tomorrow.

•

The answer to that, apparently, came from Hae-il.

The next morning, once Dae-sung has written to say he’s on his way to pick them up, Seung-gil and Phichit wash the dishes to the tune of Sunja’s guilt-inducing whines, then make their way back to the bedroom.

“It’s not going to work,” is how Seung-gil begins his explanation. His pessimistic opening is belied a bit by the fact that he’s rooting through his closet and handing Phichit item after item.

Too curious to comment, Phichit just accepts it all until there’s a dark mound of cloth in his arms. Every piece of clothing he holds is dark red, dark blue, white, gray, black, or black _and_ gray.

“I had no idea you had such variety in there,” Phichit tells him with a cherubic smile.

Seung-gil says, “Ha,” and leads Phichit back to the bed, where they spread it all out.

“So you want me to wear your clothes?” Phichit asks.

Seung-gil nods. “It was Hae-il’s idea,” he says, like he’s trying to distance himself as much as he can from this plan. “You brought your face mask, right?”

Phichit nods and points vaguely at his suitcase.

With a sigh, Seung-gil takes Phichit’s wrist and guides him to the bathroom next. His sulking is deeply amusing until it occurs to Phichit that Seung-gil might pull a pair of scissors and try to cut his hair.

“Wait,” he says, bringing his hands up to protect his Look as Seung-gil opens the mirror cabinet. “Why—” His question drops away unfinished and his mouth falls open at the sight of the tray Seung-gil pulls out.

“Is that _makeup?_ ” Phichit gasps.

Seung-gil nods, frowning. “Yes. Why?” He opens the lid and shows Phichit a pristine palette of eyeshadow. “I haven’t used this one yet, don’t worry.”

Phichit manages a bewildered noise. Somehow, in the ten years he’s watched Seung-gil perform, it never once occurred to him that the makeup Seung-gil wore in competitions was his own.

He’s even _commented_ on Seung-gil’s makeup to people! Last year, burning with envy, Phichit asked Celestino if he knew who did the sunrise-shaded look on Seung-gil's eyes, but Celestino only shrugged. Seung-gil has always just showed up to venues in full outlandish makeup; his lack of reaction to people’s praise always made Phichit assume Seung-gil had nothing to do with it himself.

From a glimpse into Seung-gil’s cabinet, though, and seeing the same brand of eyeliner Phichit himself used until a YouTuber opened his eyes to the brand he uses now, it’s clear Seung-gil has quite a bit of practice.

Phichit reaches up, frames Seung-gil’s face with both hands, and tells him with gravity, “I want you to know, from the bottom of my soul, how difficult it is for me not to brag about you on Twitter right now.”

Seung-gil rolls his eyes and says, “Sit on the toilet cover, please.”

Grinning, Phichit obeys, folding his legs and grasping his left ankle. Before he closes his eyes and tilts his head back, he catches a flush spreading across the crest of Seung-gil’s cheeks.

The first touch he feels is Seung-gil’s hand on his forehead, brushing his fringe back gently. Then pins sliding into his hair, holding it out of the way. The makeup application takes far less time than Phichit expects, but he feels quite a bit done to his face in the meantime. Blunted pencil tips, puffed and fanned brushes, the damp slip of tissue—every move quick and confident and typically efficient.

When Seung-gil’s finished, he doesn’t say anything, just stands back until Phichit opens his eyes. Seung-gil’s gaze is tracking Phichit’s face, examining his own work, and Phichit knows he isn’t imagining the fondness he’s seeing.

“Can I look?” Phichit asks.

Seung-gil takes another step back and Phichit takes that as a yes, so he stands and braces his hands on the lip of the sink. His smile rises unbidden, instinctive excitement bubbling up at the sight of his own face. It’s definitely not a look he would have gone after on his own, but the colors complement his features in ways he’d never have imagined would work.

Even his fringe, which he assumed Seung-gil only pinned to move out of the way, is tucked back seamlessly into the rest of his hair. Phichit grins and traces his fingers along his hairline, enjoying the rare feel of it.

He notices Seung-gil observing him in the reflection over his shoulder and gives him a warm smile.

Curiously, Seung-gil averts his eyes. “Hae-il does this when he travels with…people.”

Phichit turns and sets his lower back on the sink, grinning. “With ‘people’? Really? What kind of people, Seung-gil?”

He’s not surprised when Seung-gil rolls his eyes almost violently at the ceiling and makes to escape the bathroom, so Phichit is prepared to grab onto his forearm before he can get more than a step toward the door. Seung-gil won’t turn around, so Phichit settles for hauling him back, hugging him around the waist, and pecking his cheek.

“We have to leave soon,” Seung-gil tells him. He wriggles with such lukewarm effort it convinces neither of them that he actually wants to be released.

“What if it doesn’t work?” Phichit asks, rubbing his chin on Seung-gil’s shoulder. “What if your fans recognize me?”

“Then they’ll roast us and eat us,” Seung-gil says.

Phichit considers that, then decides aloud, “Your view of your fan base worries me.”

Seung-gil answers him with a grunt.

•

In the car, to save time, Dae-sung runs his brother through the plan in their native language, and then Seung-gil translates tersely into English for Phichit.

“He’s going to drop me off at a different terminal. He’ll drop you at the right one,” he says, toneless.

He suspects that Dae-sung’s ten-minute explanation involved more than what Seung-gil’s told him, and while he trusts Seung-gil not to leave out any crucial elements, he doesn’t seem entirely functional at the moment. “So I just check in?” Phichit asks. “Will we meet up after security?”

Dae-sung is already shaking his head. He glances at Phichit in the mirror, his mouth slanted with displeasure. “Sometimes fan buy the plane ticket,” he says, sounding grim.

Seung-gil snorts. “‘Sometimes,’” he parrots. His gaze has been fixed directly ahead through the windshield ever since he got into the passenger’s seat, and Phichit wonders how many weighted thoughts he’s carrying.

When Dae-sung stops the car, Seung-gil doesn’t bother with saying goodbye to his brother and only offers Phichit a quick, “See you in Nagoya,” without meeting his eyes.

•

The nature of Phichit’s relatively chill, self-policing fanbase usually makes him feel safe in public. He has the occasional fan approach hoping for a selfie or an autograph, but overall when he’s recognized he’s only expected to smile and wave back. Fans who push for more tend to be very young, and Phichit never feels threatened by them.

It’s only after Dae-sung has dropped him off at the terminal that Phichit gradually begins to appreciate what Seung-gil lives with. There’s a cluster of girls gathered outside the terminal doors wearing only skirts and Team Korea jackets despite the frigid temperature. All five of them are preoccupied with their phones as Phichit passes them, nervous breaths hot and moist against the back of his face mask, and none seem to notice him.

He becomes very conscious of his own very conspicuous phone, concealed in the pocket of the boring beige puffy jacket Seung-gil put him in. Phichit wishes he’d taken Hae-il up on his offer of borrowing an extra phone case.

He tries not to look for Seung-gil as he retrieves his ticket, checks his bag, and makes his way to the security line. While he waits, he licks his lips a few times under the mask and keeps his eyes low, fixed on the gold and blue plaid of his passport cover. Amid the sea of green South Korean, Vietnamese, and turquoise Norwegian passports around him, Phichit congratulates himself on being fashionable enough to have bought a case to put over his own red one.

Boarding the plane takes the most years off of Phichit’s life. There are several girls and a few boys sitting together near the window of the gate, all of them going through the contents of their carry-ons and showing each other the various husky plushes they’ve packed, presumably to throw on the ice for Seung-gil. When business class is called, Phichit is the first in line, and he’s careful not to make eye contact with anyone but the staff until he’s in his seat.

He exhales with his eyes closed, asking himself for the third time today why he didn’t book a flight to Tokyo instead. _Of course_ most skating fans would fly directly to Nagoya. If he and Seung-gil had gone to Tokyo first, they probably could have blended in a little better. …Celestino might have popped a gasket, though, if he extended this surprise trip any longer.

With his coach in mind, Phichit tugs out his phone and goes through the torrent of messages waiting for him. He sees Seung-gil’s name and passes it with effort, choosing Celestino’s first. He updates his coach on his progress, continuing their conversation from this morning, but Celestino is likely already in the air and doesn’t write back.

Phichit divests the jacket and stuffs it into the overhead compartment. His carry-on goes under the seat in front of him, his shoes next to the wall, and the complimentary blanket tight around his body. The clothes Seung-gil gave him to wear are thin from years of use and provide little to no protection from the chill of the airplane.

When he opens his chat with Seung-gil, his mind revisits the cold truth that after the GPF, they’ll be back to their separate countries with only Four Continents at the end of January the next mostly-guaranteed time they’ll see each other in person.

[You look cold.]

Phichit lifts his chin, surprised, and zeroes in on the tousled black hair of the guy pushing his carry-on into the overhead compartment. He smiles and writes back, [I am. Can I have your blanket, too?]

He watches Seung-gil take his seat and vanish from Phichit’s line of vision. A moment later, ‘Read’ pops up under Phichit’s message, and shortly after that, [I’m sorry.]

Phichit sinks into his seat, holding in a laugh. [It’s fine. I was only kidding.]

[But you are cold?]

[I am, but it’s not your fault. Also, I don’t think anyone saw me, so the plan worked! Yay!]

He checks every social media app he has to confirm that. As far as he can tell, no one’s posted anything, not even about Seung-gil. He’ll be pleased about that, maybe.

As Phichit switches back to Seung-gil’s chat, a blunt object drops into his lap and he squeaks, leaping as far as his seatbelt will allow. Seung-gil’s back greets his startled gaze. No one else seems to be paying any attention to them, or to the neatly folded blanket Seung-gil’s delivered.

•

Through messages, Seung-gil shares that he’ll go on ahead to the hotel while Phichit waits at the airport for Celestino. The odds of running across fans is much, much higher in Nagoya, so of course Phichit understands the logic. It’s the irrational side of him that’s gotten used to being around Seung-gil over the last two days that leaves him feeling morose.

The flight is nearly two hours, and Phichit spends it watching the first half of My Fair Lady. The musical numbers put him closer to the mindset he needs to be in for the GPF, almost weightless with confidence and anticipation for his skates to touch the ice.

Once they’ve landed in Japan and finished taxiing to the gate, Phichit stands and spares a glance over at Seung-gil’s seat, finding him already waiting for the business class door to open.

Phichit gathers his things more slowly. As camouflaged as he is, it’s still probably safest to leave a gap between them. As the other passengers around him clear out, Phichit waits in his seat.

By the time Phichit passes through immigration and arrives at baggage claim, Seung-gil is gone.

There aren’t words within his grasp to describe how little he’s enjoying this.

•

His mood lifts a bit when Celestino finds him in the airport food court. His coach gives him a friendly enough smile and ruffles Phichit’s hair as he loops the strap of his carry-on over the handle of his rolling bag. Phichit takes this to mean he’s been forgiven for being impulsive and emotional and offers him a wry smile in return.

“Interesting makeup,” Celestino says, gesturing to his own face with amusement. “You’ve had time to scout out the food. What do you recommend?”

Phichit points out a few restaurants around them, rating each one based on the attractiveness of the pictured food on their menus. Celestino takes in the advice, nods, and heads over to a tonkatsu chain the way he does every time they visit Japan. It wasn’t even on Phichit’s list.

Left to his own devices, Phichit photographs his bowl of chicken and egg over rice and uploads it to Instagram with a Japanese flag emoji and Yuuri’s hashtag with a heart next to it. He also includes the katsudon tag, but a flurry of his followers promptly and gently inform him that what he’s eating isn’t katsudon, but oyakodon.

To his surprise, Yuuri is one of them.

Phichit grins and opens their chat. [I was close enough! Where are you?]

[…Pork and chicken aren’t close,] Yuuri writes back.

He’s been spending too much time with blunt, cynical Russians.

Yuuri tells him that he and Viktor have stopped at an inn in Okayama and aren’t arriving in Nagoya until tomorrow. He promises Phichit he’ll drop by Phichit’s room once they’ve settled in, and Phichit wheedles a promise out of him that he’ll take Phichit to a chicken wing restaurant, since that’s what Nagoya is apparently famous for.

At least Sara, Mila, Mũtugi, and Julien will all be here competing within their own disciplines as well, but none of them is arriving before tomorrow evening. Phichit hums and drops his chin into his palm as Celestino sits down opposite him with his tray. “Ciao Ciao, I think this is shaping up to be a pretty lonely GPF,” he says.

Celestino gives him an exasperated look. “Maybe you’ve had enough social interaction for the week?” he suggests with a deadly eyebrow lift.

“Never,” Phichit tells him.

Yesterday, while he and Seung-gil went over their competition in detail, it never occurred to Phichit that Seung-gil might be the only one he’d have to spend time with. The GPF will be Yuuri and Viktor’s first time skating against each other all season, so they’ll likely be fused at the hip—more so than usual. He and Otabek rarely go out together, but he's usually a good companion on the sidelines. With little Yuri around, though…that leaves Seung-gil.

Suddenly, agreeing to try and keep their relationship low-key seems shortsighted.

As Celestino lifts a strip of his deep-fried pork cutlet with his chopsticks and dips it into a dish of sauce with practiced precision, he asks Phichit, “Is your head in the right place?”

Phichit frowns. “Of course,” he says. “Why would you ask that?”

Celestino chews, eyes boring into him, then bounces his eyebrows up with a dismissive air. “No reason,” he says.

It doesn’t sound sincere, and a small tendril of worry sprouts in Phichit’s mind. If his coach is concerned, should he be?

•

By evening, checked in and relaxing in his hotel room, that tendril has grown in both size and presence. Celestino is out having dinner with some ISU-connected people, leaving Phichit on his own to examine this new feeling he doesn’t like.

He both wants and doesn’t want to leave the hotel, so he asks his Twitter followers to lend him their knowledge of the area around Gaishi Hall. The GPF venue this year is on the outskirts of the city, and all the sightseeing spots his followers recommend involve navigating the subway or taking a taxi for at least twenty minutes.

He opts to rest, except that now it’s eight o’clock and he’s alone and bored and Seung-gil won’t answer any of his messages.

Chris is the only one actively writing back to him at the moment, but Phichit doesn’t want to complain about anything to him right now. He’s in a ginger state of mind about the GPF, judging by their last FaceTime conversation, and Phichit can’t bring himself to bring negativity into their conversation.

While Chris sends a barrage of photos of his cat asleep on his boyfriend’s rear, Phichit watches the second half _My Fair Lady_ on his iPad and snuggles Hamtaro; he’s still a little surprised that Seung-gil never noticed that Phichit’s carry-on was 80% Hamtaro.

By the time Phichit’s tired enough to call it a day, he tells himself Seung-gil is just busy. He's probably concentrating on something with his coach, if she’s here.

The fact that he doesn’t know that for sure irks him. He could ask Hae-il, but it feels far too soon to resort to that.

He falls asleep telling himself that he’s being ridiculous, and that this is exactly why he shouldn’t have waited until twenty to date someone.

•

As promised, Yuuri arrives at Phichit’s door late the following afternoon with an invigorated smile that suits him. His hair is loose and sleek around his face and with fascination, Phichit takes one of the longest strands between his fingers.

“How long are you going to grow it out?” he asks.

Yuuri’s face colors a little. “I’m—ah. Well. I don’t know. It’s fine like this, maybe.”

Phichit senses blood in the water and smirks. “Viktor likes it long, doesn’t he?” he prods.

Yuuri makes an entertaining face and bats Phichit’s hand away. “Do you want to get dinner?” he asks.

To Phichit’s surprise, Viktor doesn’t join them, and Yuuri is vague as to why that is. As they’re waiting on the platform of the train station closest to the venue, bundled against harsh wintry blasts, Phichit wonders aloud if they’re having a ‘married people spat’.

Yuuri shoots him an annoyed look, but the power of it is dampened by his kitty-eared hat and the scarf hiding most of his face. “We’re not married yet,” he says, “and we’re not fighting.”

Phichit giggles at his indignant tone and then yelps as a particularly vicious breeze shoves at both of them. He huddles next to Yuuri and whines, “Protect me, Yuuri! Your country wants to kill me!”

It’s only thirty minutes later in the restaurant Yuuri leads them to that Phichit finds a photo of the two of them on Twitter steadily rising in retweets and favorites. He shows Yuuri with a grin.

“Maybe the rumors about me and Seung-gil will go down a little,” he speculates. The place Yuuri’s chosen only has six tables, and four of them are occupied by men in business suits who are probably only glancing at Phichit every so often because he’s not Japanese and he clapped a little too enthusiastically at the waitress’s hamster necklace.

Yuuri hums with skepticism. “I don’t know about that,” he says.

Phichit tilts his head in acknowledgement. Just this morning, he watched news coverage of Yuuri arriving in Nagoya with Viktor, the two of them holding hands as they carried their suitcases down the stairs of Nagoya Station. Viktor didn’t miss the opportunity to kiss Yuuri’s cheek in front of the cameras, looking suave, but Yuuri upstaged him by kissing Viktor’s engagement ring. Naturally, Viktor nearly tripped down the stairs, which is probably going to be made into a popular gif before too long.

When their chicken wings arrive, Phichit happily devours his share and then tries to sneak one of Yuuri’s. If it were Chris or Guang Hong or Mila or even Leo here with him now, they’d probably have asked about Seung-gil already, but Yuuri isn’t that kind of friend. He must be curious, but he’s never pressed Phichit for details that Phichit hasn’t offered up.

For some reason, though, Phichit doesn’t want to be the one to bring up Seung-gil. He also doesn’t know how to say, “He won’t answer my messages,” in a way that sounds like something an adult would say. The last time he had an issue like this, after all, his masseuse laughed at him.

Yuuri lets Phichit steal a wing off his plate with nothing more than a tolerant sigh, and once Phichit’s finished it off and licked his fingers clean, he asks about Yuuri’s family instead.

Yuuri’s smile is swift and sweet, if directed at his plate. “They’ll all be here,” he says, sounding a little awed.

It turns out that when Yuuri qualified for the GPF hosted in his home country, his parents insisted on taking their first holiday in twenty-two years. Their onsen has seen enough of a surge in reservations over the past year that they’ve hired a newly graduated cousin to come up from Kumamoto and work for them part-time.

“That’s great!” Phichit says, warmed by the jubilant vibration of emotion in Yuuri’s voice. “It makes sense, though, doesn’t it? You’re a big celebrity and all.”

Yuuri snorts, but undercuts the dismissive noise with what he tells Phichit next. Apparently, Viktor’s birthday gift to Yuuri last week was unveiling a line of Vicchan plushies, keychains, and hand towels to be sold in the onsen’s souvenir shop. Yuuri says, through a sheen of tears that he’s trying to pretend aren’t there, it was a collaboration between Viktor and Yuuri’s older sister, and they managed to keep their project a secret from him for months.

That’s how Yuuri segues into gifting Phichit a tiny plush Vicchan keychain. The tiny poodle face is too precious not to immediately photograph and post to every single one of his social media platforms.

And naturally, he has to then circle around the table to hug his pleased, blushing friend.

In the wake of all that, Phichit feels even less like bringing up Seung-gil, so he doesn’t.

•

As they pass the venue on their way back to the hotel, a horde of reporters descend on the pair of them. They hone in more on Yuuri, but one of them deigns to ask Phichit how he’s enjoying Japan. He answers her politely, telling her how much he and Yuuri just enjoyed their meal of chicken wings. This draws in a few of the others, who are Nagoya natives, and soon Phichit has the spotlight to himself (not that Yuuri fights him for it). He keeps an arm around Yuuri’s neck in case his dear friend gets any ideas about leaving him to handle the whole pack on his own.

Then, with almost predictable timing, one of the reporters springs a stunner on Phichit. “This time, you visited Seoul to train?” The collective mass of microphones hover a little closer to him.

Phichit licks his lips and frantically searches for an innocuous answer. Yuuri helps by very carefully not looking at him.

He’s about to deny he was there at all when a firm hand lands on his shoulder. A glance backward confirms that Viktor has arrived from the ether, his other hand on Yuuri’s head between the hat’s kitty ears.

The chorus of “Viktor Nikiforov!” is almost comedically feverish.

True to his nature, Viktor takes smooth control of the questions and then manages to bring everything to an equally graceful end within two minutes. The three of them are allowed to continue toward the hotel undisturbed, and Phichit marvels, “That was amazing!”

Viktor waves a hand with elegant humility. “I have a lot of practice,” he demurs.

Yuuri cinches his arm around Viktor’s waist and earns a soft smile for it.

Over the summer, the two of them participated in a YouTube project about the stresses and little-known repercussions of dating under scrutiny. Yuuri and Viktor were labeled “The Honeymooners”, and the project creator couldn’t find enough ways to wax poetic about the passion and strength of their relationship.

“Thank you,” Yuuri says to Viktor.

Viktor kisses his forehead. “You’re welcome.”

They really are their own level.

Phichit’s smile becomes curious when Viktor turns a coy look on him. “I thought your trip to Seoul was a social call,” he says, far too light.

“Um,” Phichit says. “It was?”

Yuuri uses the hand resting on Viktor’s hip to give him a smack in the same spot. “Stop that,” he says in exasperated Japanese. He’s said it to Phichit enough for it to have a special spot in the bank of Phichit’s second languages.

Viktor says something in Russian back, pouting.

“You are so,” Yuuri says in English. “Stop casing everyone.”

Phichit’s eyebrows rocket up in disbelief. “Casing—me?”

Viktor angles his head politely as they enter the hotel lobby. “You’re a formidable rival, after all,” he says.

Phichit takes a moment to process Viktor Nikiforov calling him formidable. The eight-year-old in him is screaming at the top of his lungs and also crying. A lot.

“Th-thank you,” he says, dazed.

Yuuri sends him a sympathetic look, but Viktor’s eye is already fixed on a new target.

“The Raven,” he murmurs.

Yuuri lets out a tiny huff of a laugh, and Phichit understands who he’s talking about far before he sees Seung-gil heading into the elevator with Min-so by his side. Phichit isn’t prepared for the shock it gives his system to see Seung-gil in his team jacket with his coach, isolated from the other skaters as usual.

Seung-gil seems to sense their staring and turns his head away from Min-so. His gaze locks with Phichit’s for only half a second, his mouth tucked to the side with some displeased emotion.

Phichit’s stomach turns over as the doors close.

“He’s given all the competitors animal code names,” Yuuri’s telling Phichit. “I think you’re Mongoose?”

“Meerkat,” Viktor corrects. As he opens his mouth to explain further, Yuuri intercepts, “He had reasons.”

Phichit takes his word for it. He’s too rattled to speak, anyway.

What's going on?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CONFLICT. ⊙.☉


	16. Chapter 16

It takes Phichit six minutes of sending messages to suspect that Seung-gil’s muted their chat and therefore isn’t getting notifications. Inconveniently, Ji-na didn’t make the GPF this year, and Phichit doesn’t know Cho-rong—the skater who did—well enough to enlist her help in tracking down his boyfriend.

It takes him two minutes to realize that out of everyone here, _he’s_ probably the one with the best shot of finding Seung-gil before the competition begins tomorrow.

It takes him four seconds to decide he’s going to do just that. Because he refuses to skate with this hanging around his neck, and he’s not going to let this avoiding nonsense become a precedent for future competitions.

They’re going to Talk.

•

Judging by how little Phichit’s seen of the man since arriving in Japan, Phichit suspects two things about Seung-gil right now: 1) he’s in his hotel room, and 2) he has no plans to leave his hotel room until he absolutely has to.

To compound the problem, no one outside Seung-gil, the hotel staff, and Seung-gil’s own coach will know which room is his, and none of those people seem likely to give Phichit that information just because he wants to demand an explanation and sleep better tonight.

While perching on the end of his bed going through the hotel’s limited supply of channels (all of which happen to be about cooking, eating, or farming), Phichit gives some thought to knocking on every door in the hotel until he finds the right one. The only real deterrent there is that it’ll take up too much time. Also, he’ll probably wake up a few competitors who have already gone to sleep and they’ll throw things at him.

So Phichit writes to all the skaters he _does_ know well enough to help him track down his boyfriend, and through their crumbs of information about Seung-gil’s whereabouts throughout the day and the rooms they know to be accounted for, he figures out which rooms Seung-gil _isn’t_ in.

That leaves him seven possible rooms, and since it’s getting close to the time Phichit usually sleeps before competitions, he sets out with determination.

•

He stops at Yuuri’s door first.

Yuuri opens after the first knock and Phichit offers up his sweetest, most innocent pout.

“Yuuri, will you help me look for someone?” he asks, as plaintively as he can. “I don’t want to do it alone.”

Yuuri opens and closes his mouth. “Eh?” He's in the thin, patterned yukata the hotel’s provided in each room. Behind him, the shower is running and Viktor is singing something cheerful in French. Phichit suspects Yuuri intended on joining him.

Deciding his need is greater, Phichit grabs Yuuri’s wrist and says, “Thanks, Yuuri! Let’s go!”

“ _What?_ Phichit-kun! _Eh?!_ ”

•

Door number one reveals Otabek’s coach, toothbrush in hand and profoundly unamused. Phichit presents his simple but ingenious cover story of “oops wrong door” and Otabek’s coach nods, still with an air of suspicion, and shuts the door with not a single word spoken throughout the entire exchange.

Yuuri waits until Phichit’s hummed with disappointment and erased the room number from the list on his phone to say, “Phichit-kun, why are you doing this now?”

His face, when Phichit glances up, is knit with concern and not an inconsiderable amount of exasperation.

Phichit holds out for a few seconds, but he supposes Yuuri deserves the truth. He let Phichit drag him out here barefoot, after all, and Phichit knows how Yuuri feels about bare feet in public spaces.

“Seung-gil’s not speaking to me,” Phichit admits. Saying it aloud gives him a sharp tilt, almost like vertigo. Two nights ago, he was washing his face in Seung-gil’s bathroom and thrilling with the excitement of getting to sleep next to him for the second time ever. It was nice. It was something he could get used to, very quickly.

“I don’t know why,” Phichit continues. “Maybe his coach got to him about distractions or he’s just…being…Seung-gil.” He feels guilty for even giving voice to his suspicions about Min-so; he may not know her well, but he knows her better than to cast her in his imagination as some monster in a bad romance movie. She wouldn’t keep Seung-gil away from relationships just for a dumb medal. “Whatever it is,” Phichit says, “I have to know or I’ll be thinking about it all night and I just…” He gestures openly, expansively, helplessly, with one arm. “I want to talk to him.”

He wants a bit more than that, but he’ll start small. He’s already said more than he meant to.

Yuuri hums, and Phichit recognizes it as the “why are you crazy and also why am I not going back to my room” noise.

Phichit perks up a little and gives him a sheepish smile. “I wrote to Viktor and told him where you are,” he says.

Yuuri visibly droops, his expression deadpan. “That really isn’t the issue here,” he mutters, pulling his yukata tighter around himself. Phichit’s starting to think he’s not wearing anything under there.

Still, he accepts Yuuri’s continued presence as the closest he’s going to get to enthusiastic moral support tonight and drags him to the next door on the list. By the third, Phichit’s getting more inventive with his excuses for bothering people, and Yuuri’s getting a lot of opportunities to practice his “I don’t know him and no I am not Katsuki Yuuri if I were Katsuki Yuuri would I be out here like an idiot while this clearly depraved person I don’t know knocks on random doors and also where are my glasses if I’m Katsuki Yuuri see I can’t be Katsuki Yuuri” face.

“How lucky that everyone’s answered so far!” Phichit says, beaming as he leads the way to lucky door number six.

Yuuri makes a noise that Phichit chooses to interpret as the “I am putting up with this because you went and got me soup when I was sick that one time” sound.

Phichit knocks. No one answers.

His heart rate rises. “Yuuri, I think this is it,” he whispers. He rises onto his toes and practically bounces where he stands. “Seung-gil!”

Yuuri jumps like a startled cat. “Phichit-kun!” he hisses, hands balled into fists at his sides. “You have no idea if that’s—”

The door opens. Seung-gil’s mouth is slanted to one side, his eyebrows tucked low.

A wall of emotion crashes down on Phichit, and the urge to frown back rushes him, but he takes a page from Viktor’s book and smiles instead. Beams, in fact, with everything in him. “You didn’t say hi earlier,” he says in purposefully melodic, flirtatious Thai.

Seung-gil’s face colors.

Yuuri sighs. “Can I leave?”

Phichit nods at him and waves, outright grinning now. “Of course! Bye, Yuuri! See you tomorrow! Maybe at breakfast? Send me a message!” Before Yuuri’s even taken a step, Phichit whirls to face Seung-gil and says, “Let’s chat for a while,” in firm-yet-still-awkward Korean. He used a translator app before he left his room and has been chanting it in his head in case his mission saw success.

Seung-gil takes a long, steadying breath. His eyes shift to Yuuri with great suspicion, and Yuuri reciprocates with a tired wave as he rounds the corner on his way back to his and Viktor’s room.

Phichit folds his arms and drops the smile, narrowing his eyes. He juts his hip out to drive his point home.

Seung-gil finally says, “I wasn’t going to say no,” in quiet, exasperated English.

He heads back into the room, leaving the mechanics of keeping the door open to Phichit. While Phichit toes off his sneakers and turns them to face the door alongside Seung-gil’s, the bedsprings creak. A few more steps into the hallway give Phichit a clear view of Seung-gil lying on his bed, staring up at the ceiling.

Phichit takes a quick scan of the room. Seung-gil’s laptop is open on the desk, a video of his Skate America short program paused mid-spin. He doesn’t seem to have unpacked much else, and his bag sits in the corner of the room under the drawn curtains of the window. The same style of complimentary yukata Yuuri was wearing remains folded at the end of Seung-gil’s bed, currently smushed under Seung-gil’s head.

Phichit decides to start from the absurd. “Did your coach tell you to stay away from me?” he asks. He’s almost 90% sure she wouldn’t, but as soon as he says it, a traitorous part of him wonders, _But what if she did?_ Almost as if giving it voice it has also given it sudden credibility.

There’s a moment of silence. Seung-gil’s face doesn’t change or move. Then, he reanimates with a spasm of nose creasing and eyebrow furrowing and mouth twitching. “ _What?_ ” He turns only his head and the weight of his incredulity is a balm over Phichit’s nerves. “No. Why would she do that?”

Well, _that_ tone won’t be tolerated.

Phichit folds his arms again and struggles to hold down his annoyance. “Then why aren’t you talking to me? Or answering my messages?” A little alarm goes off in his head and he hears his questions repeated back to him in his mind in an exaggerated, needier version of his voice.

Seung-gil sits up, studying Phichit with careful deliberation. He seems sincere when he says, “I’m talking to you now,” but Phichit remembers that look he got from Seung-gil before the elevator doors shut on him and he’s not satisfied.

“Did you mute me?” he asks. He’s a little horrified with himself for how small his voice sounds. “In our chat, I mean.”

Seung-gil nods, frowning. “Yeah. I was with my coach. I always mute you when I’m with Min-so.”

Phichit’s mouth opens to slice that down as untrue, but he stops. Because he doesn’t…actually know that it is. He’s never seen Seung-gil train in person. He’s never done a lot of things with him, in fact. He’d never even spent two days alone with him until this past weekend.

“Can I sit down?” Phichit asks. His world is trembling a little around the edges.

Seung-gil sits up and moves up against the headboard. He watches as Phichit crosses the small space between them and sits on the bed.

“I thought you were avoiding me,” Phichit says. He looks down at his hands and picks at his thumbnail. He remembers too late that he bought nail polish that matches both his costumes, but he forgot it in Bangkok. In the chaos before his trip to Seoul, he wasn’t thinking much about the GPF, or even the Olympics beyond it.

“I’m focusing on tomorrow,” Seung-gil says. He’s facing Phichit, but his gaze is stuck to a spot on the wall—probably past the wall itself. As he talks, his expression grows more neutral, more distant. “Nikiforov’s eye is on the Olympics. So are Altin’s and Plisetsky’s. Katsuki is on a gold streak, and I want gold here. I’ve worked all year for it.”

Phichit covers his face with his hands and exhales in a rush. Of course. Of course that’s it. What else did he expect?

“I don’t know how much you want from me.”

Phichit hears it, absorbs it, but it won’t register in his mind with significant meaning. He lifts his head and finds Seung-gil staring at him instead of the wall.

“What do you mean?” Phichit asks. He can’t tell if this is a new topic or not; Seung-gil’s intonation is as flat as ice.

Seung-gil crosses his legs and rests his elbows on the sides of his knees, and not for the first time Phichit is struck by how ethereal he can look in the right lighting. It’s a little unjust, really. Phichit’s been in Seung-gil’s bathroom, and he now knows firsthand how little Seung-gil does to maintain that smooth, beautiful face of his.

“How long do you want to date me?” Seung-gil asks. “Maybe you don’t usually plan that, but I’d like to know.”

Phichit imagines he’d have an easier time processing a whale plummeting through the ceiling.

The answer he settles on is a half-laughed, “As long as I can?” and then a helpless gesture with both hands. “How long do _you_ want to date _me?_ ”

Seung-gil wrinkles his nose as if Phichit’s intentionally missing whatever point he’s trying to make. He sits back against the headboard and sighs at the ceiling.

That, it turns out, is the limit of Phichit’s patience for the night. He says, “Okay, hold on,” and crawls up the bed until he reaches the gate of Seung-gil’s re-crossed legs. Phichit settles his hands on Seung-gil’s knees and says, “Excuse me,” with a pointed smile. Seung-gil slowly parts his legs enough for Phichit to kneel between his thighs, and freezes up when Phichit frames his face and kisses him.

As much as Phichit would like to declare himself the supreme holder of all knowledge pertaining to Lee Seung-gil, there’s still so much he doesn’t know about him. He’s spent the last six months building an inventory in his mind, crammed to bursting with tiny details and significant memories. He knows the name of Seung-gil’s first cat. He’s knows Seung-gil keeps a tabloid article about Hae-il above his desk. He knows Seung-gil started learning Thai for him before they’d even started going out. He knows Seung-gil loves math and reason and skating figures. He knows Seung-gil sees the world in his own way, and he knows Seung-gil doesn’t care if he’s the only one who does.

But as much as Phichit knows, there are important experiences they have yet to have together. He’s never met Seung-gil’s parents. Seung-gil’s never met his. They’ve never even had a real date. He’s never gotten the privilege of guiding Seung-gil around Bangkok, to the secreted corners and hidden gems of his beloved city.

He’s been learning who Seung-gil is across long distances and through the lens of a second language Seung-gil clearly doesn’t feel confident using.

Phichit strokes Seung-gil’s jaw with both thumbs and tips his head back a bit, effectively breaking the kiss. He opens his eyes and finds Seung-gil already watching him.

They’ve built something delicate over the last six months. Something unfinished and structurally unsound, like a sculpture made from sugar glass. It has a foundation, but a precarious lean to it. One gust of breath could send it toppling over, and Phichit isn’t leaving this room until he’s convinced himself and Seung-gil that they can make it stronger.

“Is there a reason you’re worried about our relationship?” Phichit asks.

Returned to the safe harbor of only yes or no answers, Seung-gil’s lips take a fleeting tic upward and his shoulders relax. “Yes,” he says.

“Did I do something?”

“No.”

“Did someone say something to you?”

Seung-gil doesn’t answer. He seems to remember all at once that he has arms and slides them tight around Phichit’s waist. After a moment of thought, he puts his head on Phichit’s shoulder, leaving it there with tense, tentative pressure.

Phichit rubs between his shoulder blades as slowly as he can while casting through his memories for any time Seung-gil initiated contact like this. He comes up empty.

He also can’t think of who Seung-gil might have talked to. Except, of course— “Was it Min-so?” he asks.

“No. I fired her.”

“ _What?_ ” Phichit tries to rear back, to see Seung-gil’s face, to get any indication of what he’s feeling from his expression since his voice is totally devoid of feeling. But he can’t. Not easily, at least; Seung-gil has him in too tight of an embrace.

“She’s staying until the end of the GPF,” Seung-gil continues. It’s a challenge to make out what he’s saying with his mouth jammed against Phichit’s neck the way it is. “She wanted to.”

Phichit grips the back of Seung-gil’s shirt and breathes out with a disbelieving sound. Then, “ _Why?_ ”

Preceding Seung-gil’s answer is a long, long pause. Long enough that Phichit can feel moisture gathering on his neck from Seung-gil’s breath. Then, Seung-gil says, in a very small voice, “I want a coach who smiles like you do.”

Phichit breathes in without an issue, but his exhale shakes. “Oh?”

If anything, Seung-gil’s grip tightens. “Min-so isn’t a bad coach. I like her style. She was an Olympic silver medalist. She knows how to win. But.” He moves Phichit’s shirt collar aside with his nose and presses his closed eyes against Phichit’s bare shoulder, and Phichit’s stunned to feel wet heat.

In Korean, probably to himself, Seung-gil whispers something that sounds like, “I want to love my sport again.”

Reasonably sure he’s translated right, Phichit sinks one hand into Seung-gil’s hair and strokes over his scalp, massaging in with deliberate pressure. He thinks, maybe, that he’s not supposed to say anything here. So he doesn’t.

Seung-gil doesn’t cry for long, and it’s difficult to tell when he stops, because he doesn’t make that much noise in the first place. Only the occasional thick sniffle hints that it’s happening at all. Phichit keeps holding him long after he’s gone silent.

When he thinks Seung-gil’s calmed down, Phichit cranes his neck back and touches a kiss to Seung-gil’s forehead. “I want to go on a date with you,” he says. “A real one. After the GPF is over.”

If Seung-gil is surprised by the non-sequitur, he doesn’t give any indication. He looks tired, red-eyed, shaken. When he nods, his mind seems elsewhere.

Phichit frames his face again and wipes at the smudged tear tracks on his cheeks. “I don’t know if it’ll help to hear,” he says gently, “but I think you’ve been skating beautifully this season.”

Seung-gil huffs out a noise Phichit can’t interpret (self-deprecating?), but he reaches up, rubs Phichit’s left forearm, and squeezes his wrist in a gesture that seems purely affectionate.

“I watched your programs before I skated in New York,” Seung-gil says. His voice is still thick and quiet, and he won’t meet Phichit’s eyes. “It helped.”

Phichit makes a thin noise in the back of his throat, his own eyes beginning to burn. “I’m warning you,” he says with warmth, “if you keep being this sweet, you’re gonna have to call the staff to make me leave.”

Seung-gil ignores the bulk of that and says, staring straight down at Phichit’s knees, “You can sleep here if you want.”

Weightless with an unexpected possibility made reality, Phichit ducks down and grazes their lips together. “I will then,” he says.

With time, Phichit manages to ease some of the tension out of Seung-gil. Slow kisses and gentle massaging caresses have Seung-gil’s grip relaxing into something less like a vice and more like an embrace. Phichit only pulls away when his legs are assailed with pins and needles and moving in any direction sends shooting pains through them.

“I’ll go get ready for bed and then I’ll be back,” he says with a wink, and hobbles to the door.

Seung-gil’s single chuckle behind him is enough to make his heart soar.

•

Phichit brings Hamtaro with him and grins when Seung-gil covers half his face with a very clear blend of amusement and embarrassment.

“He’s my good luck charm,” Phichit says with prim dismissal. He climbs over Seung-gil and places Hamtaro on the spare pillow they won’t be using.

When he’s satisfied that Hamtaro has a good layout for the night, Phichit stretches out under the thick blanket and shivers from the full-body contact with cold-soaked fabric. In the few minutes it took him to brush his teeth and gather his clothes for tomorrow and run back to Seung-gil’s room, the temperature has already taken a dramatic dive.

“Keep me warm,” he says, prodding Seung-gil in the stomach with his elbow. “I’m not dropping out because I caught the flu.”

Seung-gil pulls Phichit’s back snug against his chest and clasps their fingers together over Phichit’s stomach. “Go to sleep,” Seung-gil says. “Unless complaining keeps you warm.”

Phichit giggles and squeezes his hand. “You did another joke!” he teases.

He can’t see Seung-gil, but he can hear the smile when he murmurs, “Shut up,” in Thai into Phichit’s hair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've worked out the ending! Another three chapters, I'd say, and she's wrapped up. ♡


	17. Chapter 17

Waking up with Seung-gil next to him reinforces the calm that settled in Phichit’s chest as he fell asleep. Inanely, he creates a list in his head called _Places I’ve Slept with Seung-gil_ and adds “hotel in Nagoya, Japan” to the second slot directly below “Seung-gil’s apartment”. Not bad for a relationship barely even a month old.

They’ve ended up in somewhat of an odd configuration. Phichit’s on his stomach, lying diagonally, his head pillowed by the left half of Seung-gil’s ribcage. In the middle of appreciating Seung-gil’s body heat under his cheek, he realizes that 1) his toes are cold, 2) Seung-gil is totally uncovered, and 3) he himself is cocooned in the blanket.

Sheepish, Phichit loosens the blanket from around himself and gently maneuvers Seung-gil under it with him. The bare skin of Seung-gil’s legs and arms feels frigid to the touch, but Phichit curls around him and firmly rubs whatever he can easily reach.

To his extreme amusement and perplexity, Seung-gil only endures about three minutes of this before he grunts and pushes the blanket off them. Odd little snow spirit, Phichit thinks with fondness, touching his nose to Seung-gil’s cold cheek and inhaling.

He wakes Seung-gil before he leaves, explaining that he’d rather use his own shower to get ready. Seung-gil answers in noises and nods, never once opens his eyes, and buries his face in Phichit’s side of the pillow the moment Phichit is finished talking.

Once he’s showered and dressed, Phichit meets Celestino for breakfast and makes cheerful small talk with the whole table. Yuuri doesn’t speak much, fortified in his own thoughts, but Viktor and Phichit easily occupy the silence. He isn’t prepared for the moment Min-so enters and sits next to Celestino.

He’s sure his face is as good as transparent when she meets his eyes across the table, but he offers her a halting smile, aware of Viktor’s eyes shifting between them with interest. The stern line of Min-so’s mouth widens into an expression that says she’s aware that Phichit is informed of her situation to some degree. He can’t tell how she feels about it, from the lack of outright hostility on her face, but she probably isn’t delighted.

She mostly talks to Celestino, the two of them comparing notes on some function they attended together recently. Meanwhile, Viktor asks Yuuri when his family is arriving, and that leaves Phichit to focus on finishing his breakfast and priming his mind for the competition.

It occurs to him that while Seung-gil has a good idea of their competitors’ objectives going into the GPF, he doesn’t seem to have a solid grasp on Phichit’s. Though, in all fairness, neither does Phichit. Being here at all is thrilling, and his competitors promise a wide variety of style, performance, and craft. He likes everyone here, and he always loves visiting Japan. On the recognition side of things, he’s qualified for the GPF twice consecutively, won gold at the Cup of China last year, made the podium at Worlds, and took home silver at both of his competitions this season—

But isn’t it enough for him to skate simply for the enjoyment of it? As he tips his bowl of miso soup against his mouth for the final shredded dregs of tofu and seaweed, he wonders how Seung-gil would answer that.

Would it be the answer he expects, or would Seung-gil surprise him again?

•

The men’s initial warmup on the ice finds Phichit more aware of the audience than he has been all season. He offers waves indiscriminately in all directions as he glides along the long wall and grins when people wave back. A little girl, maybe six years old, lights up when he locks eyes with her and she waves a Hamtaro plush with wild enthusiasm. He adds a thumbs up for her and her smile widens.

He recognizes more faces than he thought he would. Among them, there’re the three middle-aged women he’s seen several times this year, all wearing exactly the same style of jacket. They’re combining forces at the moment to hold the five flags of the competing countries in a long line. Near them are the two older women who always wear some homemade article from one of Viktor’s past programs—today one is wearing the jade ombré scarf from Viktor’s 2014 GPF exhibition skate and one is wearing a knit sweater bearing the same design of Viktor’s 2011-12 short program. A teenage boy and girl in the front row with South Korean flags try to get Seung-gil’s attention, but he’s in his own world as usual—his eyes never even once flicker toward the audience.

Nearby, little Yuri and Otabek pass each other and exchange a wry sort of smile that has Phichit instantly curious. He’s going down the mental path of “are they—?” when a cluster of what sounds like three hundred teenage girls all shriek little Yuri’s name at the same time.

The amusement drops at once from little Yuri’s face, which then scrunches like a pale raisin. He skates abruptly in the opposite direction, and the girls laugh with delight—perhaps to have gotten any reaction at all.

Phichit decides to pay a little less attention to the audience.

To no one’s surprise, least of all Phichit’s, Yuuri and Viktor naturally gravitate toward each other, and most of the audience’s attention is on them as they give playful chase across the ice. Viktor catches onto the tails of Yuuri’s jacket and laughs as Yuuri turns gracefully, grabs onto Viktor’s hands, and spins both of them. Everyone knows the expectation is that one of them will take home gold, but from where Phichit is skating, no one could care less about that than them.

When it’s time to clear the ice, Phichit hears a familiar voice call his name. He pauses near the door, hand on the edge, and follows the sound to the stands. His eyes widen as he finds Supatra at the railing, mittened hands still around her mouth.

Laughing, he mouths _why?_ at her as Otabek passes him through the door.

Supatra holds up her phone and points at him, which he interprets as _check yours_. Then she turns and hurries up the stairs, presumably back to her seat.

She can’t really expect him to do that now, so Phichit puts it out of his mind. He’s been to a few of Supatra’s competitions over the years, and she returns the gesture when she can. He has zero interest in tennis and she calls figure skating “slipping for points” but they’re model audience members when the time calls for it.

His heart feels even lighter knowing he has friends in the audience as well as on the ice.

•

Seung-gil is up to skate first, and at the sight of him, Phichit wishes he’d spent more time with him this morning. His face, normally inscrutable, seems almost sallow and prematurely defeated. His posture seems off somehow, as well—his shoulders, maybe? As far as Phichit can remember, he didn’t look this tired when Phichit woke him up. He was sleepy, sure, but not like this.

Some of the audience seems to have picked up on it as well, and the swell of applause for him rises in volume as the announcer gives his name. Seung-gil doesn’t acknowledge it, nor does anything about him appear to change. Only his chest moves, and each breath seems shallow and quick.

Chewing his lip, Phichit watches streaks of light travel across the dark fabric stretched sleek and taut over Seung-gil’s torso, amazed that the ethereal sight before him is the same cold, tousled boy he woke up next to.

Then the program begins.

Seung-gil’s strength is in his step sequences, and Phichit allows a smile to shift across his lips as Seung-gil’s training overpowers his odd mood. He almost visibly sloughs off whatever was dragging him down as he sets up his first jump, and Phichit exhales as he lands cleanly. He applauds along with the audience, beaming with equal bursts of pride and enthusiasm.

At this point in the season, he has both of Seung-gil’s programs memorized well. This one is definitely the more difficult in terms of jumps and step sequences. Phichit suspects that was Min-so’s idea; start strong, less pressure later. But Phichit wonders how well she knows Seung-gil’s mind—he’s going to pressure himself to perform both perfectly no matter where everything ends up. Isn’t it better to divide things evenly and preserve his stamina?

From the ether, Yuuri takes a spot on Phichit’s right, while little Yuri perches both elbows on the railing to his left. In silence, the three of them watch Seung-gil nail his first quad, and the clear relief on Seung-gil’s face is more than enough to suck the breath from Phichit’s lungs. The audience spends theirs on a cheer and warm applause.

He’ll be okay, maybe?

A small eternity later, just as Phichit’s hands are starting to ache where they’re gripping the railing, little Yuri comments, “His step sequence is sharper than yours, Katsudon,” and Yuuri replies, “Mm.”

Seung-gil launches into his third and final quad with a wobble, but he manages to save the landing, only just. Phichit breathes out in a gust.

“You keep doing that,” little Yuri points out with an edge.

Phichit’s face heats, and he covers the lower half of his face with both hands. “Sorry,” he says, his voice pitched unusually high. He keeps his eyes on Seung-gil as he gives his closing spin, this time just holding his breath.

Some in the audience have already started to clap, and as the music fades, the rest join in. Seung-gil himself takes a moment to orient himself, eyes closed and head back, arms still extended behind himself. When he comes out of it, his eyes find Phichit and his smile changes.

Phichit tries very hard not to sniffle.

“I thought they were keeping it quiet,” little Yuri says to Yuuri, loudly.

Phichit ignores him and adds a whistle to his clapping. Seung-gil ducks his head to cover the telltale widening of his smile and pushes off his left blade in the direction of the kiss and cry to join his coach.

•

Some of the somber pallor that weighed Seung-gil down before his skate began returns as he and Min-so wait in silence for his score.

When it’s announced, Phichit doesn’t hear it, doesn’t see it.

All he knows in the world right now is Seung-gil’s hands covering his whole face as his body sags under a solid crush of emotion.

To himself, behind his jacket collar, Phichit smiles and whispers, “That’s my boy.”

•

A short while later, as Otabek waits in the kiss and cry for his score, Phichit takes to the ice and entertains himself (and hopefully Seung-gil, wherever he’s gone) by skating impromptu figures. It makes his fans laugh when they realize what he’s trying to do, and how badly he’s doing it.

From the side, Celestino calls, “You started a new one!” with amusement.

Phichit pokes his tongue out and winks at him, then intentionally skates even wider on the next loop.

Otabek’s score is announced. The shortage of rotations in his last quad and his touch to the ice early on cost him, and his score falls a few points short of Seung-gil’s. With intense concentration and great strength of will, Phichit doesn’t search the crowd for his boyfriend’s reaction.

He does, however, allow his eye to be drawn up into the stands where Supatra is waving wildly at him, a small Thai flag in each hand and a garish pair of neon green frames on her nose. And beside her—

His _parents?_

Phichit stops cold and nearly overbalances, and this makes all three of his visitors laugh. This…might explain why Supatra wanted him to look at his phone.

He was still in the junior division the last time his parents were able to come watch him compete, and not until this moment did he realize how much he’s missed that core of support in the crowd. His father is wearing one of Phichit’s caps backwards and his mother is holding one of the sunflower seed pillows Phichit’s had since he was nine. The pair of them are pumping their free hands in time with the rhythmic clapping of the crowd.

“Phichit!” Celestino shouts.

Phichit finds him, dazed, then beams at him from a good ten meters away. “My parents are here!” he shouts.

Celestino’s answering smile is tolerant but a little harried. “Good, good—now go!”

Nodding first at his coach, Phichit gives his parents and Supatra a giddy wave before he takes his place at the center of the ice. Surely, he thinks, it’s enough to skate for fun. Even for— _especially for_ —serious athletes, love is what makes every sport a craft, isn’t it?

But he’s _not leaving Japan without taking a selfie with each of his parents wearing his medal_.

With excitement brimming, Phichit takes his opening pose.

•

His score surpasses Seung-gil’s by three points.

Celestino squeezes the arm he’s got draped around Phichit’s shoulders and Phichit leans into him. “I guess there _were_ enough rotations,” he laughs. He almost makes a joke about the trip to Seoul being worth it, but there are microphones everywhere and besides that, he’s pretty sure Celestino wouldn’t find it as funny as he does.

He tells himself he’s not worried about Seung-gil’s reaction while at the same time squelching the pit of worry growing in his stomach.

•

As always, there’s a small army roaming around the venue, and Phichit fully expects he won’t actually get to talk to Seung-gil until they’re back in the hotel later. He’s so certain of this that he’s on his way up to get the full story from Supatra and his parents behind their sudden appearance when Seung-gil rounds a corner and they’re less than a meter apart.

There are no fewer than thirty people in their immediate area—local Japanese staff with badges, ICU staff, coaches, assistant coaches, skaters, choreographers—but no one seems interested in the two of them for the moment.

Seung-gil’s face goes through a complicated round of expressions, then settles on blank. “Good skate,” he says.

Phichit licks his lips and braces his shoulder on the wall, picking at the bumps in the paint with his blunt thumbnail. He hears himself say, “I guess formidable was a good word for me?” and almost covers his mouth with his hand.

The confusion that closes Seung-gil’s face quickly fades into something far more wry as he remembers what Phichit is referencing. Seung-gil huffs, then rocks on his feet, like he was thinking of moving closer.

Phichit waits, smiling. “Serves you right for forgetting about me,” he says, “when you were talking about everyone’s motivations yesterday.”

Seung-gil tilts his head, his frown gradual. “What do you mean?” he asks. Someone with a cart maneuvers around him and forces him closer to the wall Phichit is leaning on, then he takes the opportunity to stand closer to Phichit himself.

“You said you were focused on today because the others are aiming more for the Olympics,” Phichit says. “But you didn’t say anything about me. Did you forget we were competing against each other?” He lifts a smile to show he’s teasing.

Seung-gil doesn’t even look around them. He reaches out and pinches the sleeve of Phichit’s jacket between two fingers, tugging on it as he looks back and forth between Phichit’s eyes. “You’re the one I keep my eye on,” he says, blinking down at his hand as color rises to his face. “I already told you that, didn’t I? I didn’t think I would have to do it twice.”

Ignoring the pointed tone of the second part is easy, faced with the emotion evoked from the first.

Phichit manages to clear his throat and hold it together long enough to tell him, “If you’re not okay with me hugging you right now, tell me.”

Seung-gil says nothing, but his mouth does quirk a little.

Phichit says, “Good,” and brings his arms under Seung-gil’s and around his back, squeezing tight. He notches his chin up on Seung-gil’s shoulder and breathes in against his neck. His hair is a tangle of scent between sweat and the shampoo he brought with him from Seoul, and his skin smells like the same generic soap Phichit used this morning.

“What are you doing?” Seung-gil asks.

“Kissing without kissing,” Phichit answers, grinning.

Seung-gil snorts and presses his hand to Phichit’s lower back, but his touch is so ginger it barely leaves an impression. “What’s with you and Katsuki hugging your rivals?” he asks.

“I only hug the ones I feel bad about beating,” Phichit says. Then, “Speaking of,” he adds in a whisper. “Want me to make it up to you in my room tonight?”

Seung-gil lets him go with the universal noise Phichit identifies as _seriously?_ and turns on his heel, heading into the nearest restroom without looking back.

Satisfied that that will probably become a yes later, Phichit glances around at the surrounding staff, but literally no one appears to be even remotely interested in the skaters hugging, so Phichit jogs up the stairs in search of his visitors.

•

His parents react the way he expects, his mother stroking the side of his neck with a proud smile while his father dabs his tears with tissues provided by Supatra.

“My little skater king,” his father weeps.

Phichit pulls his nose into a scrunch and complains, “Papa, you’re going to make me cry too.” Sure enough, his eyes already ache with the promise of fountainous emotion. “When did you decide to come?”

“Oh, months ago,” his mother says with a dismissive bob of her head.

Phichit blinks back at her. “Why this time?” he asks.

She smiles a little too innocently. “We can’t go to Japan to see our athlete son compete?” she counters.

He gives up. They’re up to something, no doubt, but with so little time remaining before little Yuri’s skate begins, Phichit makes the mature decision to let it go for now. He takes a seat on half of Supatra’s chair with some sibling-esque shoving exchanged.

Little Yuri’s program begins normally, but there’s something wild in him today, and Phichit’s breath catches in his throat when, instead of the expected salchow, little Yuri takes off from the forward edge of his left blade. Processing what’s going to happen only takes an instant, and Phichit is already wincing when the attempted quad axel ends with too few rotations and a botched landing. He was close, though. _Very_ close.

He picks himself off the ice with obvious vexation and carries on without apparent injury. Phichit claps extra hard for the brave choice and notices Supatra doing the same.

“Do you know what he just tried to do?” he asks, keeping his voice low out of respect for the quiet atmosphere around them.

“Fly,” she says with confidence.

Phichit rolls his eyes toward the ceiling with open disdain and opts to ignore her for the rest of the program.

She snickers.

Unfortunately, the exertion required of little Yuri’s adventurous flirtation with the seemingly unreachable quad axel leaves him in haggard condition. It especially shows in the shake of his blades when he takes off for his final quad and then goes down into a heavy landing he manages to save with what looks like the last of his energy.

He’s panting when he takes his final pose, his trembling arms visible from the stands.

Phichit cheers his name as loud as he can, fond of their spunky little tiger skater.

“He’s so sweet,” Phichit’s mother coos. “What’s his name? Why is he so tired? Poor boy, how old is he?”

Phichit wonders how alarmed little Yuri would be to find out he’s gained another potential fan.

His score is a close shave above Otabek’s and just below Seung-gil’s, which for Phichit brings on a rush of relief and—immediately afterward—a geyser of guilt. He claps extra hard to dispel the latter.

Yuuri’s up next, and Phichit gives him a preemptive standing ovation that earns him laughs from the audience members around him. He remembers their conversation last night and realizes that Yuuri’s entire family is here somewhere, watching him skate to his opening pose. The family Phichit’s talked to over Skype countless times, attempted Japanese at, and promised that he wouldn’t let Yuuri get sick. At the far end of the rink, one of the large screens briefly displays Yuuri’s fiancé standing poised on the sidelines, hands on his hips, famous white and red uniform pressed and intimidating.

As usual, Yuuri begins by touching his ring to his lips. The audience cheers with recognition of an action that’s quickly become a ritual for both of them, but the moment the music begins, they fall almost entirely silent.

Yuuri’s confidence is everything Phichit knew he’d show on the ice one day. His step sequences are crisp and quick, his quads more solid now that he’s rested and focused.

There’s only one word for him out there:

_Formidable._

His score pushes Seung-gil into third.

Viktor’s knocks him down to fourth.

•

In bed that night, Seung-gil doesn’t seem to know what to do with his hands or his body or even his words. He lies next to Phichit in silence, gaze tracing patterns on the ceiling.

Phichit walks his fingers up from Seung-gil’s stomach to his chest. “Can I ask you a yes or no question?” he ventures.

Seung-gil hesitates, then nods.

“Are you okay?”

Seung-gil doesn’t answer for a typically long moment, then he shakes his head.

Phichit kisses his cheek, a little out of empathy and a little for the honesty. “I thought so…but are we okay? The two of us?”

Seung-gil sighs. “You don’t have to do this,” he says.

Phichit pushes down his automatic rebuttal. He forces himself not to point out that that’s the longest sentence Seung-gil’s given him in over an hour, and while Seung-gil is no one’s definition of chatty, Phichit has come to expect a little more than monosyllables from him over the last several months.

The results of the short program were as many predicted: Viktor in first, Yuuri narrowly in second, and Phichit holding third quite a wide margin down. Despite a thorough search of the whole hall, Phichit couldn’t find Seung-gil anywhere, so he gave up and went to dinner with Supatra and his parents, who asked him very vague and leading questions about his love life. While they were roaming the street afterward in search of a place to get dessert, he got a message from Seung-gil that read: [I’m going to sleep soon. Do you still want me to come to your room?]

Phichit found Seung-gil in pajamas outside Phichit’s hotel room, and up close in the weak hotel lighting, Seung-gil appeared ready to collapse. A protective instinct automatically kicked in, guiding Phichit to usher him into the room and directly into bed.

They’ve been here for nearly an hour now, and the longest sentence Phichit’s been able to coax out of him contains six words. Seven, if you count the contraction (he doesn’t).

Phichit slings his arm around Seung-gil’s stomach and kisses his ear. “I know I don’t,” he says. “I just know how much this competition means to you.”

“It doesn’t mean something to you?” Seung-gil turns his head on the pillow, genuinely incredulous.

“It means something different to me,” Phichit says with a small smile.

Seung-gil returns his stare to whatever spot on the ceiling he’s been memorizing. He doesn’t speak for so long that Phichit is dozing off pretty close to full-on REM sleep when Seung-gil tells him, “There’s no way I can make the podium.”

Phichit tightens the arm around his stomach with a burst of sleepy energy. “That’s not true,” he murmurs, summoning English with effort. “You’re not far behind me.”

“I’ve been estimating the odds. Plisetsky only fell behind me today because he attempted the axel,” Seung-gil says. “Altin fumbled a quad. Tomorrow they’ll be sharper. They were warming up today. If you raise their base totals of an average-level program to—”

The realization of what Seung-gil’s saying wakes Phichit up enough that he can push himself up onto his elbow and block Seung-gil’s view of the ceiling with his own face. “Seung-gil,” he says, frowning, “are you implying that you only scored higher than them because they were off their game?”

Seung-gil’s eyes don’t quite meet his. “Not implying,” he says. “That’s what _did_ happen.”

“You’ve made the podium plenty of times before,” Phichit tells him, frowning. “You landed a quad loop before any of us. You’re not here because you were lucky and they weren’t.”

“No, I’m here because my overall ranking was fractions higher than Giacometti’s and Leroy’s.”

Phichit frames his face between his hands and bobs his head in various directions until Seung-gil gets tired of avoiding his eyes and gives him an impatient glare. “You’re here because you _made_ a score higher than theirs. Everyone except you knows you earned your way here. And everyone except you sees you as a dangerous rival to the podium.” He kisses Seung-gil’s forehead. “So, y’know. Fuck your estimations.”

Seung-gil closes his eyes, but he isn’t as easily comforted as Phichit had hoped. He runs his fingertips along Phichit’s left forearm with a jerky, hesitant touch for a few seconds, then says, “I want to sleep.”

Even though he knows he could push the issue, Phichit chooses to let him have his rest for now. He can encourage optimistic thinking in the morning.

Phichit quiets his mind as best as he can while stroking through Seung-gil’s hair. He navigates Seung-gil’s body around and presses close to his back, tucking his knees behind Seung-gil’s.

With what Phichit assumes is his last burst of energy, Seung-gil whispers, “Don’t take the blanket again.”

Phichit says, "Maybe."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a tricky chapter to write because I kind of just wanted to write what every character was up to. At least that bodes well for future one-shots? \;D/


	18. Chapter 18

On the morning of December 8th, 2017, in the liminal space between saturated dream and crisp-edged reality, with Seung-gil a dead weight on his chest, Phichit makes a plan.

•

He wakes Seung-gil a little before nine, climbing on top of him and pressing the heels of his hands under Seung-gil’s shoulder blades for something like a massage. He’s already been through his morning routine in the bathroom. He showered again and brushed his teeth and tried a new rice scrub on his face before moisturizing and then trimmed his nails. He wrote messages to all relevant parties awaiting responses from him, posted a morning mirror selfie to Instagram, retweeted Guang Hong’s photo of his toenails painted in Olympic colors, dressed warmly, and uploaded a snap of himself in sparkling golden filter glory.

All that’s left is to present his thoughts to his secret boyfriend. (Keeping things quiet is far more fun, Phichit has decided, if he thinks of Seung-gil that way.)

Phichit shifts his weight a little more generously onto his arms, feeling like a cat kneading a blanket. “Seung-gil,” he whispers, drawing his voice into a near-melodic pitch.

Seung-gil doesn’t respond, but he does take a long, wide breath that suggests he’s awake.

Phichit grins. “You know, if you’re still asleep, this is probably a good time for me to try out some of the endearments I’ve been thinking of using for you.”

Still nothing.

“English has some cute ones. Baby, sweetie, bae, angel cake—”

A full-body twitch.

Phichit isn’t satisfied with that, so he hums loudly and continues, “Darling, kitten, cupcake, turtle-dove, honeysuckle, sugar-lips—”

“I want to break up with you.”

For a second—just one—Phichit’s heart jumps into his throat. It isn’t long enough for real hurt to sink in, but it’s enough to stop his hands on Seung-gil’s back. He recovers with a bright laugh.

“No,” he says. He shimmies his hips and drops down to cover Seung-gil’s entire body with his. He works his arms under Seung-gil’s chest and hugs him tight. “You’re my branch and I’m your slug.”

Seung-gil manages to turn his head to deliver a look that’s both scathing and blank. “How?” he asks.

Phichit kisses his cheek. “Mm? How what?”

“From cupcake to bug,” Seung-gil clarifies, voice thick with sleep.

“I don’t think slugs are bugs,” Phichit says. He rests his head on Seung-gil’s neck, over the cushion of his hair, and smiles. “You’re comfier than a branch, though. Cupcake is probably better.”

“Don’t call me cupcake.”

“Sugar-lips is fun.”

“No. Not fun.”

Phichit grins and noses Seung-gil’s hair aside to kiss the soft arch of his neck. “I have a plan for today,” he shares quietly.

“Mm.” It’s truly remarkable how much skepticism and premature negativity Seung-gil can pack into one small noise.

Phichit’s arms start to sting from bearing their combined weight, so he changes position so he’s lying next to Seung-gil instead, one hand playing with his fringe while the other traces patterns on his shirt.

“Don’t judge until I’ve actually told you the plan,” he says.

Seung-gil’s second _mm_ is somehow even less optimistic than the first.

“What do you usually do at competitions?” Phichit asks him.

Seung-gil seems to consider it, but he also appears to be lodged between a state of reluctant clarity and sleepy disorientation.

“I’ll tell you!” Phichit continues with cheer. He ignores Seung-gil’s wince. “Almost one hundred percent of the time, you keep to yourself and only talk to your coach.”

“I talked to you yesterday,” Seung-gil points out. He yawns without covering his mouth. Phichit suffers only a hint of the ensuing sour smell before he covers it for him.

Still, it’s sort of endearing. Six months ago he’d have probably classified that more in the _turn-off_ category, but six months ago he wasn’t quite this emotionally compromised.

He traces Seung-gil’s closed eyelid with a fingertip and says, “Lee Seung-gil, I’m formally inviting you to spend the day with me the way I would normally spend it.”

Seung-gil frowns and moves his head back out of range. “Why?” he asks.

Phichit withdraws his hand. He’s thought a lot about how best to phrase what he’s about to say, and he’s still not sure how it will be received. Even if he spoke fluent Korean, or Seung-gil spoke fluent Thai, it isn’t language that poses the issue this time. Emotion is.

Phichit has an Opinion about Seung-gil’s choice, and it’s built up slowly over the few waking hours he’s had since Seung-gil dropped it on him. He knows it isn’t unheard of for a skater to proceed from mid-season without a coach, but after careful study of the best recorded cases, Phichit isn’t sure it’s a wise move for someone with Seung-gil’s temperament.

Especially with the mood he was in last night.

“Before I answer that,” Phichit says, “can I ask you something first?”

Seung-gil’s eyes flit between Phichit’s, considering. Then, “Okay.”

Phichit licks his lips. While he was traversing the room getting ready as Seung-gil slept, he plugged in his travel-sized aromatherapy diffuser above the desk, and only now is the scent starting to reach the bed. Once he’s inhaled the soft, mingled scents of ylang ylang, lavender, and bergamot, Phichit says, “Why do you skate competitively?”

He’s expecting a frown, so he’s surprised when Seung-gil pulls in his lips like he was expecting this question at some point.

It isn’t like Phichit’s never seen him give an answer to this question, either. It was in at least one of the Korean blog posts Phichit read back in the summertime when he was trying to get a better understanding of Seung-gil as a person. He’d had trouble translating the answer with his limited tools, but what he’d gathered from nuance didn’t feel accurate. More like a rote answer to a dull question.

Now, though, Seung-gil doesn’t seem prepared to skim an answer off the surface. He rubs his cheek on the pillow under his head and when he speaks, it’s in an even quieter tone than usual. “Now or when I started?”

Phichit feels his mouth tick up. “Both,” he says.

In the hallway, there’s a burst of noise. Voices at a volume just slightly louder than seems to be appropriate for late morning fill the hallway, and Seung-gil actually waits until their voices carry down the hallway and into the elevator before he continues. “I took part in a lot of activities as a child. Skating was the one I loved most.” He seems to change his mind about the direction of his explanation and rolls onto his back, now addressing the ceiling. “My mother hired Min-so. They’re good friends now. They have lunch. I liked winning. Min-so knows the best choreographers in the country. She doesn’t try to be my friend. She doesn’t become involved in my life. She only cares about skating. Like me.”

Phichit pillows his cheek on his hand, digesting this with a low noise. “Do you think that’s still true?” he murmurs. “That it’s all you care about?” He pokes between Seung-gil’s ribs with a playful jab and grins when Seung-gil takes his hand.

The curve of his lips softens when Seung-gil takes Phichit’s fingertips to his lips.

It’s what gives Phichit the nudge to prompt, “When did you stop loving it?”

Seung-gil says, “I don’t know,” and turns to face Phichit so suddenly it catches him off-guard. It’s almost like Seung-gil thinks _he_ might know.

There are times when Phichit imagines he’s living inside a snow globe, and everything around him has been carefully chosen and arranged just for himself. He knows his surroundings, he’s comfortable there, but his walls are clear glass, and everyone is welcome to see into his world if they want. The one time he shared this thought with Yuuri—very, very drunkenly—Yuuri implied—only very drunkenly—that it sounded like an unsustainable way to live. He implied that if people can see in, they can see not only where your weak points are, but also how to exploit them.

This was around the year Yuuri’s English took a dramatic rise in fluency, but he only needed a few words to make his point: “Glass walls break.”

And maybe twenty is too young to feel as confident as he does that no one will ever hurt him to the point of breaking. He knows what he loves, he knows who he is, and he has nothing to hide—what is there left?

Empathy, apparently.

Phichit decides he has enough information for now. He twines their hands and rests them on the bed between the two of them. “This is what I’m thinking,” he says with a coy smile. “My friend Supatra is here—”

“The tennis player?”

The strain in Seung-gil’s voice is apparent, and Phichit blinks. “Yeah. She’s been my friend for years.”

Seung-gil makes another sound, distinctly unhappy. His face projects nothing.

Phichit blinks some more. “What’s wrong with that?” he asks, laughing.

Seung-gil doesn’t answer. “What about your friend,” he says instead.

Deciding to brush past the odd wobble for now, Phichit says, “My parents are treating Celestino to lunch. Normally I’d go with them, but Supatra suggested we check out some of the lesser-known parts of the city. They’re famous for chicken wings, apparently.”

He expected more of a reaction to the suggestion of food—especially wings, considering Seung-gil’s love of barbecue—but Seung-gil’s expression remains as unforgiving as stone.

Phichit works his hand free with a frown. “What’s this?” he asks in exasperation, pressing the pad of his index finger on Seung-gil’s forehead. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

Seung-gil bats his hand away, and he seems tempted for a long moment to keep his silence, but instead, he blurts, “Is this a date?” The tone of his voice suggests apathy, but the volume doesn’t.

This has become a sitting-up conversation, so Phichit stretches, sighs, and pushes himself up. Crosslegged with his arms folded, Phichit says, “No, Seung-gil, it’s hanging out with my best friend.”

Seung-gil resists the change in position, stubbornly clinging to his pillow. “Why?” he sighs. “Why do you want to spend the day like this?”

And they’re back to the original question Phichit didn’t want to answer. At least now he’s annoyed enough to answer without hesitation. “I’m trying to figure out how to cheer you up,” he says. “You’ve never even met Supatra, have you? Why are you so opposed to hanging out with her? You’re not _jealous?_ You don’t _seem_ jealous, but—”

“Not jealous,” Seung-gil says. Then, more firmly, “I don’t need more friends.”

Phichit reverts to blinking to demonstrate how far that’s thrown him. “ _What?_ ” he says. “I didn’t say you do.”

Seung-gil groans and tucks his face into his pillow, effectively hiding even his blank expression from Phichit.

The warm affection Phichit woke up with, seeing Seung-gil’s unguarded face so close to his on the pillow, feels a little out of his reach. For the first time, the effort he’s put in, the patience he’s exerted, have a physical impact on him. Oddly, the effect strikes his vision, giving him the impression of sitting very far away from Seung-gil despite the mere centimeters separating them.

He touches Seung-gil’s shoulder once, drawing back after applying the smallest amount of pressure, and clears his throat. “Seung-gil,” he says, “I don’t want to do this alone.”

It’s exactly what he wanted to say, but it frightens him once it’s said; it sounds like an ultimatum.

When Seung-gil turns his head, his fringe is floating with static and his face is pinched with annoyance. It isn’t until he makes eye contact with Phichit that his expression clears into an emotion closer to frustration and embarrassment.

Phichit decides he’s done talking. He looks down at his bare calves, the light scar from where he slashed his leg on broken coral at fourteen, the dramatic curve where his muscles are sharply defined.

He admits to himself, in the privacy of his personal snow globe, that he’s only had confidence taking the lead in their relationship because he didn’t want to know what Seung-gil would do in the same role. He’s believed to a reasonable degree of certainty that Seung-gil wants to stay with him for the foreseeable future, as long as any new couple can realistically plan for, but it dawns on him slowly as he studies his legs with rapt fascination that a good deal of their relationship is going to be like this: separated and reunited in hotels during the season, meeting up when they can in the off season.

At a distance from his own thoughts, Phichit wonders if this is what Yuuri calls “spiraling”.

Seung-gil finally sits up, and he mirrors Phichit’s crossed legs. His arms he keeps free, though, his elbows resting gingerly on his pajama-clad thighs.

“I’m sorry.”

Phichit tips his head up a bit in acknowledgement, then says, “Why are you apologizing?”

Seung-gil thinks about it. Then he answers, “I don’t know.”

The sheepish honesty in it, the vulnerability, is what makes Phichit laugh. He pushes his own fringe back with a sigh and meets Seung-gil’s upturned eyes. It’s truly unfair how beautiful he is.

“It’s not just language, you know,” Phichit says, abruptly remembering something said in Seung-gil’s apartment that he let go at the time, but has steadily bothered more him since. “You said I think your English is a problem. But I don’t think that. You just…thought that about me. And you’re doing it again now.” At the direct accusation, Seung-gil’s considerable eyebrows draw in with obvious offense, but Phichit pushes on. “I don’t think you _need_ more friends. You’re fine with what you have. But if you’re dating me, doesn’t it seem fair that I’d want to hang out with my boyfriend _and_ my friends? If you end up with a new one or two, it won’t kill you, will it? So really, it isn’t for _you_ , it’s for _me_.”

He has to force himself to stop talking because his instinct is to keep going so Seung-gil can’t have an opportunity to respond. If Phichit talks forever, he reasons, he’ll never have to deal with the consequences of what he’s saying.

But Seung-gil will also probably leave—this isn’t _his_ hotel room they’re in, after all.

After an extended pause, Seung-gil says to the bed, “You said it was to cheer me up.”

Phichit exhales with a hint of voice in it. “I did,” he confirms. “It’s for both of us, then? I don’t know. It started a lot simpler. I thought it would be fun to introduce you two, and then I just…came up with things to justify it.”

Seung-gil nods. His gaze is low and slowly following some pattern, and it isn’t until Phichit follows where he’s looking that he realizes it’s the design on Phichit’s shirt. With a fond noise, Phichit crooks his finger under Seung-gil’s chin and gently guides his head up the way he’s seen in so many movies (including both _The King and the Skater_ and _The King and the Skater II_ ). It’s the move that makes leading men and ladies alike catch their breaths.

It seems to have, to Phichit’s delight, a similar effect on his boyfriend.

Then Phichit decides to be a little bit of a brat. “In the words of the Spice Girls,” he begins.

Seung-gil’s eyes flash with recognition, the soft haze falling like a weighted curtain. “No,” he says.

“You gotta get with—”

He doesn’t get a chance to finish the lyric, because Seung-gil uses _another_ romantic movie cliché Phichit has seen over and over in movies and kisses him quiet.

•

Supatra is just as good a sport about the whole thing as Phichit expected she would be. While Seung-gil showered, Phichit sent her a slew of messages explaining the weird tension and the not-fight and she asks if maybe Seung-gil’s feeling insecure about their relationship or if he’s just being a dick.

[Little of both?] Phichit guesses. [I thought this would be good for both of us to hang out before the free skate but now I’m wondering if I’m just being selfish.]

[How?]

[Well, you know. He doesn’t HAVE to come with us. I could have just let him do his own thing today, but I don’t know…I really do enjoy spending time with him and I think it’s going to become a bigger problem later if I can only spend time with him when it’s just the two of us.]

[Yeah, you’re too much of a social addict for that kind of lifestyle.]

[Well, that was rude.]

[And true. I’ll meet you in the lobby, butterfly~!]

To Phichit’s mild frustration, Yuuri is no help recommending a place to eat (“Just because I’m Japanese doesn’t mean I know details about every city in the country, Phichit-kun!” “Of course not, Yuuri, I just asked about _this_ one!”) so he assigns himself the task of finding a good place a little out of the way of the city’s hot spots.

He’s working diligently on this as he and Seung-gil walk out of the elevator, and so he misses the moment Seung-gil and Supatra see each other for the first time.

By the time he glances up, Supatra is clearly finishing a once-over and Seung-gil’s face is wrenched with displeasure. Phichit is just about to make noises about that when Supatra says, “Do you speak Thai?” in, of course, Thai.

Seung-gil responds, “Yes,” also in Thai.

Phichit’s mouth doesn’t drop open, but his eyes grow cartoonishly large.

Supatra grins. She’s in her signature tennis casual gear, her sneakers bright blue and her skirt and shirt both daringly white against her dark skin. She radiates confidence and health and humor, whereas Seung-gil’s black jacket, black track pants, and black sneakers look all the blacker against his pale skin. The two of them keep staring at each other with no real indication of how long they’re planning on taking, so Phichit takes a photo of them.

As Phichit predicted, he and Supatra dominate the majority of the conversation, even when one of them tries to draw Seung-gil in with topics he’d usually at least comment on while in Phichit’s company alone. By the time they get to the restaurant, a good twenty minutes and two train transfers away, Phichit’s convinced this was a horrible idea and he’s a terrible boyfriend for inflicting social interaction on Seung-gil when he would clearly prefer to be roasted alive in a volcano rather than say one word to Phichit’s oldest friend.

But…isn’t that unhealthy? Even if Seung-gil doesn’t need other friends, he should at least be nice to Phichit’s…right?

Not for the first time, Phichit longs for Chris’s presence and unfailingly excellent advice. He’s got years of experience dating that Phichit doesn’t have _and_ he’s in a long-term relationship—he’d be able to explain what Phichit might be too close to see.

The place Phichit leads them to is very mom-and-pop and there are only four tables inside the place, all of which are currently occupied by businessmen while two elderly ladies are seated at the counter.

The ordering process goes smoothly, since the lunch menu is made up of four set meals that follow the pattern “(number of) wings + (side dish) + (salad or soup) + (drink or dessert)”. It’s after the ordering is done and Phichit is facing Supatra with Seung-gil sitting ramrod tense beside him that Phichit hits a spike in his nervousness.

“Okay!” he says, his voice pitchy and edgy. He holds up both hands in a universal plea for time to think. Once he’s done that, he strikes on a ploy so obvious he can barely contain his excitement as he asks Supatra in Thai, “Do you still follow Mamesuke?”

She snorts and unlocks her phone screen with a thumbprint. “Phichit,” she says with fondness. “Do I ‘still follow Mamesuke’. You’re adorable.” As Seung-gil watches, visibly uncomfortable and clearly not following however much of this he can understand, Supatra turns her phone around and shows them a video of a Shiba Inu puppy waddling down a long hallway.

Phichit already knows the video, so he watches Seung-gil instead, and he can see the very moment Seung-gil is sold on Supatra. His eyes are fixed to the screen, his lips slightly parted around a noise he never ends up making. “I love Shiba Inu,” he says, almost to himself.

Supatra restarts the video as it ends. “Me. Too.”

Seung-gil lifts his gaze to her face and Phichit is stunned when the tiny smile makes its rare appearance. “I want one,” he says, with almost childlike excitement in his voice.

Supatra grins wider. “I know, right? Me too. I want twelve. I want a Shiba Inu farm.”

Seung-gil nods very seriously. “When I retire, I’m going to open a dog cafe. For myself.”

It’s such an unexpectedly passionate declaration, it makes both Phichit and Supatra laugh. But it’s delivered with such earnest sincerity, it gives Phichit no choice but to hold his hand under the table and squeeze. He knows Supatra can tell when Seung-gil squeezes back, because he makes a delighted noise over Supatra’s tirade about the lack of followers her favorite Shiba Inu has on Twitter.

While Seung-gil is watching the next video, Supatra winks at Phichit and mouths, _He’s fucking adorable_ , at him in English.

•

Before the Grand Prix Final of 2017 began, most predicted that it would end with Viktor comfortably in first with Yuuri and little Yuri succeeding him in second and third. After the short programs, however, Phichit is something of a dark horse, and his name starts to appear in discussions about the competition in the free skate. Otabek and Seung-gil receive a fair amount of speculation as well, but it’s clear to Phichit at least that the commentators and judges and journalists who _do_ spare a thought for them are acting more out of egalitarian spirit than genuine belief in their abilities.

As Celestino offers Phichit his skate guards following his best skate of the season, Phichit’s eyes go directly to the shapes of Supatra and Seung-gil sitting side by side in the crowd. (Both Seung-gil’s and Phichit’s fans on Twitter will 1000% lose their minds the moment candid shots are uploaded, Phichit’s sure.) By some miracle of ticket trading, Phichit’s parents managed to move their seats so they could sit with Yuuri’s family, and the collection of Katsukis and Chulanonts together is a sight so bright and joyful it makes Phichit’s eyes sting and his throat thicken.

He offers them a cheerful wave using his entire arm, and then another one while he’s waiting in the kiss and cry. His father waves his Thai flag with gusto, both arms in the air and shouting what Phichit imagines are the scores _he_ thinks Phichit deserves.

When the official score comes in, Phichit is firmly in first, overtaking Otabek, and Celestino laughs with equal parts glee and triumph.

Phichit knows by the numbers that he won’t stay in first, but he’s there now, and the feeling of so many happy people cheering for his performance reminds him that he has an even bigger dream on the horizon. He’s already decided he’ll ask Seung-gil first. Mainly so he can order the costume and see if it’s as amazing on him in reality as it is in his fantasies of his marvelous ice show.

He’s almost calm as Seung-gil takes to the ice. They agreed to give each other space before their performances today, having spent most of the morning and afternoon together, but he feels oddly detached from him and already wants the whole competition to end so the two of them can skip talking and make out the way they _haven’t been_.

Whatever happens now, however this ends, Phichit will handle it.

As Seung-gil takes his opening pose, there’s a loud holler from the audience. It makes no impact on Phichit whatsoever, but Seung-gil’s head tips up. His music is about to start, but his arms are frozen halfway to his starting point, and his wide, startled eyes are fixed on the crowd.

Phichit follows his line of sight, bewildered, and gapes himself when he sees beaming, charming Hae-il. And he’s not alone. Under each arm are two identical young men with Seung-gil’s jaw and nose, and the three of them are wearing tacky sunglasses with the South Korean flag emblazoned over the frames and lenses.

The music begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next week is the final chapter! It's bizarre how much of a mammoth this became, when I really only intended it to be five chapters, but it's been marvelously fun to work on every week. That's probably how it ended up spiraling, honestly. And the feedback you guys left every chapter made this even more fun, and I really, truly appreciate every single comment left. Thank you. :} ♡
> 
>  
> 
> _Based on what I have right now, I think this is going to clock in at 20k. So, y'know, remember I said that when I turn out to be wrong._
> 
>  
> 
> Haaaaahahaha, you silly past me. You made a funny.
> 
> Also! @MelodyG! Remember your guess back in chapter eight? Yours was closest, so let me know what kind of ficlet you'd like to receive. \:D/
> 
> See you next ~~level~~ week!


	19. Chapter 19

The decision only takes Phichit seconds to make, but he takes his time shifting his attention from Seung-gil to the stands. Seung-gil has thousands of devoted fans both here and at home dutifully recording and archiving this program. There’ll be videos of it from every possible angle, in a range of high definition.

What probably won’t be memorialized are the family who traveled here to see him. Their enthusiastic support, their expressive reactions. He slips his phone from his jacket and aims it at the audience. He doesn’t want to miss any part of Seung-gil’s brothers watching Seung-gil lose himself to the hold of the only craft he’s ever felt passionate about.

As Seung-gil gathers speed for his first jump, Hae-il whispers into the ear of either Dong-hyun or Jun-young. Whichever twin it is nods, grinning, and the two brothers return their focus to the ice.

If Hae-il hasn’t attended a competition since Seung-gil’s years in juniors, how long has it been for the twins? Seung-gil rarely mentions them at all, so anything more recent would be a surprise for Phichit.

For all that their faces seem identical from a distance, everything else is a clear attempt by them to differentiate. The hair of one twin is gathered into a messy bun on top of his head, while the hair of the other twin has been neatly shaved. Bun Twin offers only polite applause, while Buzzcut Twin appears to struggle not to holler anytime anything positive appears to happen on the ice.

The twins are still holding the corners of the South Korean flag, spread crisp and clear across the space between them and therefore mostly blocking Hae-il. At first it seems like the mischief of younger siblings, but seeing a few middle-aged Korean women several rows down turn to try and get a peek at him, Phichit wonders if they’re mainly trying to shield their celebrity brother while they watch their other famous brother.

On the ice, Seung-gil attempts and lands a clean quad loop. The step sequence he segues into is just as crisp, with elegance that rivals Yuuri’s deftness. As difficult a student as he may have been for Min-so, Phichit can see why she would put up with him for so long. He’s the best South Korea has to offer, and seeing him like this, no one could doubt it.

What Seung-gil isn’t showing—and probably never even incorporated into his program to begin with—is emotion. Everything he does is beautiful and efficient and correct, but his strengths overlap enough with Yuuri’s that it’s clear what the judges will decide Seung-gil is lacking, and what they’ll reward Yuuri for later when he presents his free skate, so full of heart.

But…that’s fine, isn’t it? Maybe not for Seung-gil, whose eye is fixed mainly on receiving physical evidence of his skill. But if Phichit has learned anything about Seung-gil’s fans, they’ll be posting videos later outlining every leap of improvement since he started the season. They’ll upload seconds-long clips of jumps with explanations of previous attempts that landed less cleanly. They’ll post side-by-side photo comparisons of the weaker spots in his program, showing that even they have seen marked improvement since his first performance.

Phichit himself knows he sees this program through a number of lenses. A fellow skater’s, a boyfriend’s. He knows firsthand what this sport means to Seung-gil, and he suspects a high level of turmoil and urgency building underneath that calm mask.

But to someone with a less practiced eye, a simple spectator without a vested interest in the sport, all they might see is a boy dancing across ice, light as a feather.

Seung-gil probably won’t medal today, but regardless of the outcome, Phichit will give him this video of his brothers beaming and applauding and just…being here. Phichit would never say so out loud, but he’d argue his gift is better.

•

The podium is enfolded in a ring of warmth. Yuuri stands in the center, trembling fingers around gold, with his fiancé on one side and Phichit on the other. Barely moments into the photo taking, Viktor seamlessly takes Yuuri’s arm and gives him a look that manages to be equal parts delighted and steamy, and Yuuri leans on him with pride, still a little glassy-eyed.

Phichit waves in the general direction of his parents and the Katsukis, then the cameras. He memorizes the moment as he’s living it, to remember later when he looks at photos and videos of this. Holding bronze at the Grand Prix Final, while his father undoubtedly tries to cheer louder than anyone else and his mother claps over her head to be seen more clearly.

He holds his shoulders back and allows every ounce of contentment inside him to shine through his eyes and smile.

As he’s leaving the rink, he spots little Yuri icing his injured knee on a bench nearby. He redirects.

Sailing to a stop by the wall, Phichit calls, “Little Yuri!”

With a profoundly irritated scowl already formed, little Yuri lifts his head, but his expression shifts into shock when he sees Phichit’s bouquet soaring at his face. Little Yuri catches it in the hand that isn’t holding a pack to his knee, and he stares at it, confounded.

Phichit winks at him. “Don’t go easy on me next time!” he says.

For a moment, it’s unclear how little Yuri feels about this, and then he smirks and nods.

(According to reports on Twitter, he doesn’t put the bouquet down once while he’s waiting to leave.)

When Phichit has finished his interviews, in both English and Thai, Otabek approaches him in the hallway with the dressing rooms and holds out his hand.

“Congratulations,” he says. “It was well-deserved. I always look forward to skating together in competition.”

Phichit smiles and takes Otabek’s hand in both of his. “Thank you! That’s really kind of you! I didn’t think I stood a chance after I saw your program for the first time this season.”

Otabek demurs politely. Then a tiny smile lifts his lips, but his eyes aren’t on Phichit anymore.

When Phichit follows his gaze, he finds Seung-gil standing a fair distance behind his shoulder, slipping on gloves and pretending he isn’t waiting for Phichit to detach from his conversation with Otabek.

Smoothly, Otabek says, “Congratulations again,” and slips his hand free from Phichit’s. He raises an eyebrow that seems to communicate many different things at once—amusement chief among them—and then turns to leave.

Thus untethered, Phichit approaches Seung-gil. And keeps walking.

He giggles when a hand snatches the fringe of his costume at the waist. “Wait, wait!” he laughs, backing up so the fabric isn’t put under too much stress.

Seung-gil’s eyes rove across Phichit’s face for a few seconds, then he seems to remember he’s still holding onto the costume and lets go.

It’s unclear how he feels about the podium results, but there’s a distinct lack of hostility in the air between them, so Phichit offers a warm smile. The bustle around them continues at the same pace as always, but for the first time, Seung-gil seems to be the one more aware of other people. His eyes flit over Phichit’s shoulder every so often, tracking their movements and points of focus.

Phichit opens his mouth to call his attention back, then stops. He can’t always lead.

He shouldn’t.

So he waits, arms folded loosely over his stomach, concentrating on the unrest painted over Seung-gil’s face.

When Seung-gil notices the silence between them at last, he makes tentative eye contact. He doesn’t seem nervous, but it does seem to take a great deal out of him when he says, “Fourteen.”

Phichit tilts his head. Waits.

Seung-gil says the next bit so quietly that Phichit has to lean in to hear him. “I saw you skate for the first time. We were fourteen. I told my coach I wanted to skate better than you. I told her I wanted to beat you.”

The words themselves aren’t much (when he relates the whole story of the GPF to Chris, the response to this line in particular will be tepid at best) but the intensity in his voice builds the more he speaks. By the last word, his eyes are fixed unwaveringly on Phichit’s.

And who wouldn’t smile, hearing such clumsy sincerity, faced with such earnest ferocity.

“Meanwhile, I barely remember the first time we met,” he teases.

Seung-gil nods solemnly. “I’m glad. It wasn’t a good start.”

Phichit laughs.

•

Hae-il is many things. Charming, handsome, amusing, witty, multilingual, charitable, and a well-intentioned manipulator. It’s the last one he capitalizes on when he sends the following message to Phichit and Seung-gil and two unknown users (probably the twins):

[I made reservations for a VIP room at this restaurant my friend recommended. If you two are at all interested in joining me and the twins, follow the link below and we’ll meet you there. Phichit, feel free to bring your family! The more the merrier, as they say.]

When it arrives, Phichit’s in Celestino’s hotel room going over the videos he took. The ladies’ free skate and the ensuing banquet aren’t until tomorrow, which leaves this evening mostly open except for the vague plan to take his parents somewhere nice and treat them.

He only has to imagine for a moment his father’s reaction to the opportunity to meet Phichit’s first genuine boyfriend before he’s sending the invite along to his parents.

As expected, his father’s response is first.

[YES WHERE DO WE MEET.]

Quickly followed by, in rapid succession:

[YOUR MOTHER IS IN THE SHOWER.]  
[WE WILL NEED FIFTEEN TO EIGHTEEN MINUTES.]  
[YOUR MOTHER SAYS EIGHT TO TEN MINUTES.]  
[WE WILL MEET YOU IN THE LOBBY IN EIGHT TO TEN MINUTES.]

It’s a testament to how well Celestino knows him that he doesn’t ask questions when Phichit bursts into wild laughter, curled over his phone.

•

[So…wanna meet my parents in eight to ten minutes?]

[…]  
[I can’t understand if you’re telling a joke.]

[I’m not, sugar-lips. ;) Hae-il invited us. Didn’t you see his message?]

[I mute him. It discourages him from sending me messages.]

[5555555]

[I read his message. He’s an idiot.]

[Are you not okay with this? You don’t have to.]

[I didn’t say I’m not okay. Please don’t assume I’m not okay. I understand the duties of dating. Your family lives in Thailand. They rarely attend your competitions. I have no plans to visit Thailand. Now is fine.]

[Seung-gil. Baby. Sweetheart. Are you nervous? I’ve never seen you ramble in text form. (It’s really cute, though.)]

[I’m not nervous. I’m not cute. I’ll see you in eight to ten minutes.]

[Well, I mean. I said that eight minutes ago. So.]

[…]  
[I’ll meet you at the restaurant.]

[5555555555!!! Okay. ♡]

•

The restaurant Hae-il has chosen is a hidden gem on the top floor of a thirty-storey building in downtown Nagoya. Phichit’s parents insist on taking a taxi (“The trains here are too confusing and we don’t want to be late” “Dad, he said to just show up whenever!” “Ai, can you hear this boy? Who raised him? Not us” “Mom…!”) and the driver manages to communicate through broken English that he’s only taken one other passenger to this restaurant before, and he says the person’s name with such import that Phichit assumes he or she must be a domestic celebrity.

Phichit has taken the passenger’s seat up front, so he has to turn when he addresses his mother. “Not that I’m not thrilled you guys are here,” he says, “but I’m getting the feeling you have, like, ulterior motives.”

Both of them affect innocent faces.

“The accusations!” his father cries.

His mother presses her hand to the side of her face in a parody of true surprise. “Ulterior what? Never.”

Phichit narrows his eyes. “Mama….”

She winks. “Maybe we were invited, did you ever consider that?”

He hasn’t. “By—Hae-il?”

His father grins. “He follows your mother’s Instaphoto account.”

“Instagram,” Phichit and his mother say.

He should have guessed.

The driver drops them off at the curb and points at the narrow side street. “Inside and left!” he calls. “ _Sugu, ne!_ Just! Just left!”

What he means by that, it turns out, is that the entrance is a very short distance down the side street. Phichit walks right by it, but his mother has a sharper eye than he does and tells him to come back. The door she’s pointing at is totally nondescript except for one small detail: there’s no handle. Beside the door there’s a silver plaque, upon which is engraved in Roman cursive: _King_.

Phichit’s father has already pressed the button beneath it, chin and eyebrows held high in a clear attempt to make Phichit laugh. (It works.)

Promptly, a smooth voice delivers a long Japanese greeting through the speaker and Phichit’s parents indicate his turn with expectant hand gestures.

“Ah, hello,” he says in English.

His father gives him a thumbs up; his mother grins and joins him.

“We’re here to see Joe.”

He feels like an idiot saying it, and he’s convinced throughout the ensuing two-second pause that Hae-il told him to say that just to fuck with him. Like some delayed form of hazing.

Then a new voice responds, “Welcome to King, Mr. Chulanont. Please step into the elevator.”

As the door folds back, it becomes clear why there’s no handle on it.

“Those Japanese,” his mother says, her voice simultaneously amused and admiring as if discussing a beloved distant cousin.

The elevator car interior gives a clear idea of the restaurant they’re approaching. The walls are black with countless veins of gold, and the ceiling is a dark mirror that shimmers with a holographic sheen.

Three staff in smart uniforms are waiting by the elevator doors, and they bow in unison as Phichit and his parents step into the entryway of what he’s immediately sure is the sort of restaurant that doesn’t print prices on their menus.

They’re led through a single hallway that meanders in a twisting path through the restaurant. He can hear laughter and muffled conversation, but the other diners are concealed from view by sliding doors.

The waiter stops at the end of the hallway, before a door that is clearly unique from the rest of them, and ushers them inside.

Phichit’s first impression is that the room is spacious enough to hold a party of a hundred. The wall is curved in a wide arc with floor-to-ceiling glass panels covering most of it. Four long tables are set in a square, and at the farthest one from the door, holding court in a white suit, black shirt, and jade tie, is Seung-gil’s most charming brother, Hae-il.

To his left are the twins, and their eyes are fixed on Phichit with such rapt fascination it’s more than a little intimidating.

The waiter leads Phichit and his parents to three plush cushions set close to the Lee brothers, and after a moment’s consideration, Phichit lets his mother sit at the corner closest to Hae-il, his father beside her, and Phichit on the end. He, after all, has met Hae-il.

“I’ve seen your movie!” Phichit’s mother tells Hae-il in English without preamble. “The one with the books!”

He seems delighted to hear it. Knowing the two of them, they’ll become close friends in minutes.

Phichit’s father asks about the movie, and sure enough, the pair of them are only too willing to explain it to him in far more elaborate detail than is strictly necessary.

Buzzcut Twin nods at Phichit, polite but with an air of bridled energy and impatience. “Nice to meet you,” he says. “I’m Jun-young. This is Dong-hyun.”

Bun Twin raises his hand and wriggles his fingers.

“He doesn’t speak English,” Jun-young says.

Dong-hyun appears at least proficient enough to understand that, judging by the dry look he sends his brother. He adds something in Korean too low for Phichit to hear and Jun-young grins.

“Do you speak Korean?” he asks.

Phichit isn’t sure how honest he wants to be. “Only a few words,” he says earnestly.

Eavesdropping will be much more fun this way.

The door opens again, and all six pairs of eyes focus on the newest arrival.

Seung-gil enters the room paler than usual. The white shirt and pale gray waistcoat that sit a little loose on him suggest he borrowed them from someone, and there’s an artful messiness to his hair that suggests outside interference.

His eyes find Phichit first, and his shoulders visibly loosen.

The server heads in the direction of the side of Seung-gil’s family, and at almost the same instant, Seung-gil peels off and sits on the cushion next to Phichit.

Only once he’s seated does he seem to realize he hasn’t greeted Phichit’s parents, and he pushes back up to his feet.

His face is red, and Phichit is overcome with the simultaneous urges to tweet in detail about this entire evening while hiding him from people for a while.

His father seems delighted by what he sees. His mother is barely containing a thousand questions.

Seung-gil looks sick.

Introductions are made with relative smoothness, and Seung-gil manages to come across as quiet but well-mannered. Phichit’s parents don’t even try to tone down their rampant curiosity, barely waiting for the appropriate pause to finish before they segue into questioning.

Six minutes later, through some sort of witchcraft, Phichit’s parents manage to make their son switch seats with Seung-gil, and Seung-gil’s twin brothers coax him over to their side.

Hae-il sips a glass of white wine while he discusses the menu with the server.

It’s in this setting, in the winter of 2017, with Nagoya a wide and twinkling blanket outside the windows, that Phichit glances over at his deeply uncomfortable boyfriend struggling to communicate with his parents about something other than skating and thinks, _I want to keep you._

•

Post-dinner is chaos. It turns out Hae-il and the twins are staying at a much higher-scale hotel nearby, and Phichit’s parents want to take photos of the night sights. The six of them share their goodbyes in the restaurant elevator, then briefly on the little side street, and finally once again as Phichit and Seung-gil slide into a taxi to return to their hotel.

The moment the door is shut, Seung-gil has his hand in a vice grip, so Phichit waves through the glass with his remaining free hand.

The sight on the sidewalk burns into his memory. His mother is arm-and-arm with Hae-il, his father has an arm around each twin’s shoulders, and the five of them look every bit like a group of people who have known each other for years.

The taxi pulls away from the curb, and Phichit exhales what feels like a gallon of air.

He drops his head on Seung-gil’s shoulder and squeezes his hand.

He can hear it when Seung-gil swallows roughly.

“You did great,” Phichit says, in Korean.

Seung-gil’s surprised breath is worth the extra practice Phichit has fit into his spare time. Podcasts and YouTube videos are vastly under appreciated tools for language building.

“You too,” Seung-gil says, also in Korean. Then, in English, “Jun-young hates everyone the first time he meets them.”

Phichit nuzzles his shoulder. “Well. I have compass eyes,” he says.

Seung-gil doesn’t say anything for a second, then, in an utterly perplexed tone, “What?”

Laughing, Phichit sits up and explains, “It’s something my mother has been telling me since I was a little boy. ‘There are smart eyes and calm eyes and sweet eyes and cold eyes and every kind of eyes. But only one little boy has compass eyes. He always knows where he is, and when you’re with him, so will you’.”

Of course it’s not always that way. There have been the few people scattered throughout his life who were completely unimpressed with him and moved along with their own direction firmly set in mind. He rarely knows exactly where he is or where he’s going, either.

But he likes the sentiment, and he likes even more that his mother believes something so beautiful about him.

Seung-gil, when Phichit looks at him, is watching him.

“She’s right,” he says.

Phichit’s smile is slow but wide. And warm.

He ghosts his nose over Seung-gil’s cheek and says, “Let me have your phone for a minute.”

Seung-gil frowns.

Phichit blinks back. “You do have it, right?” He, personally, would die without his, but he knows better than to assume Seung-gil has anything like the same bond with his phone that Phichit has with his.

In reply, Seung-gil pulls out his phone from his coat pocket. Phichit grabs it before Seung-gil can deliver the verbal “no” that matches the one on his face.

Phichit makes quick work of searching, downloading, and setting up the app. He’s so intent on getting this finished before Seung-gil takes his phone back that he doesn’t realize until he’s handed the phone back that Seung-gil didn’t give a word of complaint the whole time.

“What’s this?” Seung-gil asks, studying his screen with a frankly insulting level of suspicion.

“It’s an app for long-distance relationships,” Phichit tells him, beaming. “Mila and Sara are using it too.”

Seung-gil takes that in without reacting, still scrutinizing his phone like he’s not sure this new app can be trusted among his other apps.

Phichit explains, “I like what we have now, and we don’t have to use this. But I want as many ways to keep in touch with you as I can get, and Sara says this has been really helpful for her and Mila.” He realizes he’s rambling and stops.

He could explain the app, and all the detail that’s gone into its design. He could tell Seung-gil the history of the creator, who’s a semi-famous Rwandan YouTuber whose day job is coding, and how she created this app to build a closer bond with her boyfriend in Brazil. He could quote a dozen stories from couples who were skeptical but eventually won over by the intricacy and passion put into this app.

But what he goes with is, “I want to have you, too. For as long as you’ll have me.”

He isn’t expecting a big response. He doesn’t really want one, and he doesn’t get one.

Instead, Seung-gil turns off his phone’s screen and meets Phichit’s eyes with solemn intent. After a long, transfixed moment, he nods.

Phichit beams back at him. If his own eyes are comforting and centered, Seung-gil’s are unrestful and hungry. They have a language that can’t be translated into words, full of necessity and desire.

Lucky for both of them, then, that Phichit’s strength is in communicating.

Seung-gil gives him his best tiny smile, and Phichit hooks their pinkies on the seat between them.

•

On May 1st, 2018, Phichit wakes up to a plethora of messages and notifications and alerts and headlines. It’s a tangled mess of languages and exclamation marks and because—judging by the echoing wooden clacks and tinny clangs filling the air—Seung-gil seems to be in the kitchen, Phichit takes his time going through the reactions to his Instagram video unveiling their relationship to the world.

His favorite so far is a tweet from Hae-il, who’s written, simply, [I knew!]

Supatra retweets and quotes it with a string of emoji that appear to mean “me too”.

Hers is retweeted by Ji-na. Ji-na’s is retweeted by Mila. Mila’s is retweeted by Viktor. And so on, until it’s a long chain of about forty people with their own boasts of knowing before the video was released.

Phichit favorites and retweets all of them, after his customary “good morning” snap, tweet, and selfie.

When he realizes that the noise from the kitchen has ceased, Phichit inhales and stretches and waits for Seung-gil to come back.

When he doesn’t, Phichit stands up and stretches again and puts his pajama pants back on.

He’s barely got a foot out the door when chilly embarrassment washes over him.

Seung-gil is wearing Phichit’s favorite T-shirt, the white V-neck made with supple fabric that plays beautifully over the frame of his body, and he’s standing in front of Phichit’s Wall of Memorable Chats.

Seung-gil notices Phichit and gives him a deceptively blank look. He gestures at the wall with the mug he’s holding. “I’m in a lot of these,” he says in Thai.

Phichit doesn’t point out that 95% is somewhat more than a lot.

“How are you not hungover?” he asks in pointed Korean.

It’s something they’ve started doing recently, using each other’s languages when they’re feeling playful.

Seung-gil went to extreme lengths to show up here yesterday totally unexpected, and apparently went to even more extreme lengths to orchestrate it with Phichit’s friends and parents that he’d be free on the evening of his birthday. It’d been puzzling Phichit all day that everyone he spoke to was free for breakfast or lunch but absolutely no one could spare the evening.

When Phichit got home from his late lunch with Supatra, he found Seung-gil leaning on his front door with a pleased, smug tilt to his lips.

He gave Phichit a plain black phone case as his gift. On the inside, there’s a printed image of a husky curled around a hamster. Phichit switched out the old one immediately, and he’s excited to share his photo of the black, unmarked side later just to see how people will react to such a deceptively boring gift. (He loves his boyfriend’s sense of humor.)

He drapes himself over Seung-gil’s back and reads some of what he pinned to the wall.

One message from very early on reads, [Your costume this year suits your body well.]

Phichit points at it and grins. “Thank you.”

Seung-gil angles his head back and kisses his neck over one of the marks he made there last night.

Warmth floods him, and Phichit presses closer against him with a sigh.

“The video went over well,” he says.

Seung-gil makes a soft but rude noise as he runs his lips over Phichit’s jaw. “Not surprised,” he says.

“None of your fans want to kill me.”

“Yes they do,” Seung-gil says, “they just won’t post it where your fans will see it.”

Phichit giggles. His fans have become increasingly more suspicious and convinced and protective of their relationship over the past few months—understandable, considering their whole adventure at the Olympics and then later at Worlds.

As far as Phichit’s fans are concerned, Seung-gil is to be protected and cherished as one of the people Phichit clearly cares most for. They make regular work of taking down anyone who speaks ill of either of them, or of their relationship (“whatever it may be” has become a common phrase across all languages his fans speak).

The friendlier, well-mannered parts of Seung-gil’s fans have become more and more vocal, ultimately drowning out and checking the areas that have given Seung-gil such stress before.

“Besides,” Seung-gil says in Korean, “they’re more likely to have you killed than do it themselves. They’d never be able to go through with it if they met you face to face.”

Phichit hugs him around the chest. “What a sweet thought.” Then, more quietly, “Thank you for being here.”

Seung-gil turns in his arms and rests his forehead against his. “I know where I should be.”

It’s mutual. Always.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And it’s complete! ♡ But y’know something? I have some news to share with you guys.
> 
> I realized a few chapters back that in order to write all that I wanted (Olympics, twins, family dynamics, etc.) I needed a lot more time. And when I really thought about it, rather than just make this fic even longer, I decided to bring this fic to an end at the GPF and create a sequel, this time from Seung-gil’s POV. :}
> 
> As of right now I’m thinking I’ll start posting again in January, and I’ll keep a regular updating schedule like I did with this one. ♡ I hope y’all will enjoy me inflicting more of my seungchuchu on the world next year. \:D/
> 
> And to those who celebrate, Merry Christmas!


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